


Breathe Me

by skyline



Category: South Park
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Racism, Sexism, all the South Park tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-01-12
Updated: 2009-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Old fic, uploading all of it in a rush. Sorry for the spam.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Like Judas The Traitor

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic, uploading all of it in a rush. Sorry for the spam.

It was a Salvation Army Christmas. It always is.

Shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my new, technically pre-owned, pre-ripped, and pre-battered-the-shit-out-of jeans, I sigh. It's not that my shitty Christmases get me all melancholy. I mean, the holiday is about family, and as fucked up as mine is, I still love 'em. They're family. It's an unwritten rule that you're supposed to love each and every one of their obnoxious habits.

And I do. I love the way my dad downs Scotch like its fucking oxygen, and I love the way my mom thinks waffles are a nutritional meal. I love the way my older brother thinks anything that's wrong can be fixed by a decent beating, which I'm usually on the receiving end of, and I love the way my little sister thinks that one day a prince will come and save her from poverty. I tell her a college education will be more useful, but she swears by Prince Imaginary-No-Name's bank account, and who am I to tell her it's all bull?

Anyway, the thing that really gets me down about Christmas is my friends.

Don't get me wrong, I have the coolest friends in South Park. They're all fags, but they think they're cool, and thinking it is what really matters. Confidence is all just a state of mind.

See, the problem is, we have this whole Secret Santa dealio. Every Christmas, the person whose name I pick out of Stan's poofy, dorky hat is subjected to the McCormick curse. They get the shittiest deal out of anyone, because my one stop shopping usually takes place at the Dollar Store.

Meanwhile, Kyle's favorite place to pick out presents is Bose, and Stan's a total Abercrombie freak. Except when he's in goth mode, then he's all 'Hot-Topic-owns-my-dismal-despairing-soul'. Cartman tends to shop at the grocery store, because he really can't imagine up a better gift than food, but he can be pretty generous.

So it all comes down to me. I've got my unwrapped present for my Secret Santa in the back pocket of my denims, and I'm quite certain that my gift will be as reviled as it is every year.

It would help if we had a price limit on things, but the fact is, my range is about five dollars with a stretch.

I don't know. I always imagined that by senior year I'd have made something of myself. My job down at the Stop-N-Pump gas station on Main pays _okay;_ I work my ass off, but most of my paycheck goes to mom and dad so that baby sister and I can eat more than stale Doritos. Kevin contributes where he can, but he's trying to make his way through South Park Community College, and his funds are allocated to his tuition.

I plan on being even smarter than him. Ten percent of my weekly paycheck goes into a fund even I can't touch until college. It won't be much, but it'll be enough that combined with loans, I can get the hell out of this Podunk little town.

Kyle helped me set the whole thing up a while back. That kid is genius. Possibly _the_ genius of our school.

Sure, you think I'm kidding. No one can know everyone in their high school. Well, obviously you've never lived in a small town. Not only did I grow up with pretty much every single teenager in this shit hole, but our high school holds roughly two hundred and eighty kids. My senior class consists of sixty two obnoxious teens, and I know each and every single one of their names, and most of their parents' as well.

Everyone always knows everyone else's business. It's like living in the tabloids, and the paparazzi consists of the entire fucking town.

Have I mentioned that I kind of hate my life? I know I shouldn't; starving kids in Africa and India and all that. Even though I'm dirt poor, I'm not broke. I could buy myself new clothes; maybe not designer, but something decent. It would mean forgoing my nicotine habit and not paying my cell phone bill for a month or two, but I could do it.

No way would I sacrifice my family's food money though; welfare and unemployment only get you so much.

Mom might score a temp job soon, but I can't count on that. You can't count on anything in life.

So what I've got isn't great, but it's more than poor kids in most third world countries get. Hell, I even have my own Okama Gamesphere now, and a TV to hook it up to. I'm a king, practically.

The present burning a hole in my pocket tells me I'm wrong. I'm not a king. I'm nothing but a shitty friend, who can't even buy a decent Secret Santa gift.

As I make my way to Stark's Pond, I'm getting more and more depressed by the second. I slip on the icy curb, ending up with a sore butt and a scraped knee. The blood is a slash of red through the new rip I've just made in my jeans.

I must have been a really terrible person in my past life.

Sometimes I think there's nothing I have to look forward to.

Then, even though they make Christmas hella depressing, I catch sight of my friends. They always cheer me up, even when they're the source of my misery. I see them now, all huddled around the giant stump of a pine tree, trying to get warm from the biting wind and cold. They're such fags.

There's Cartman. He's got enough blubber that I've seriously considered gutting him and sending the lard to one of those Japanese Whale Hunting companies for cash. The fact that he's my best friend is pretty much the only thing that stops me from it.

Stan's on his right, yelling shrilly about something or other that happened during last night's football game. I love how he always seems to think we care. Nobody's as much of a sports freak as Stan Marsh.

That brings us to Kyle.

There's this thing about Kyle that I always liked. Y'know how some people just look more alive than others? They have this spark in their eye that always means they're trouble, but also always means they're hella fun to hang out with?

Yeah, Kyle's got that. He's casting Cartman these conspiratorial glances that have something to do with some trick they're about to pull on poor, oblivious Stan. I wonder if they're going to dump him in the lake.

Its awful cold, and he might have my present with him if he's my Secret Santa. Those two dumbasses are probably too stupid to think of that.

Taking pity on both the black haired boy and what could possibly be my present, I yell out a greeting.

"Kenneh! You bastard," Cartman seethes when he sees me, "Took you long enough to drag your po' ass down here."

I smile and flip him off. It's pretty much my go-to response when dealing with Cartman. He doesn't really understand anything else.

Kyle looks rather grumpy that he didn't get to dunk his super best friend in the lake, but he gives me a serene smile nonetheless.

Stan, on the other hand, is a bundle of Christmas joy and nerves, as always. He throws his arms around my neck and mumbles, "Kenny, oh god, I got Kyle for the Secret Santa, and what if he doesn't like my present?"

Aw. There was no need for me to save Stan, now was there? Oh well. I neglect to tell him that he just totally ruined the point of Secret Santa. I now know that either Kyle or Cartman has me. That means I get cool new stereo equipment or a buttload of food.

Either way, this Christmas thing is looking up.

Now you may ask why Kyle participates in our Secret Santa when he's Jewish. Well, hot damn you people are Anti-Semitic. Just because people come from different religious backgrounds doesn't mean they can't take part in a little gift exchange. Hell, the more the merrier. Come Hindus, come Muslims, come Protestants and Mormons, come Jains, Sikhs, Buddhists, and…well, shit, I can't think of what rhymes with Mormons. That was supposed to be a little play on the whole on Dancer, on Dasher, on all you fucking reindeer with difficult freaking names, but obviously I ain't exactly the brightest guy around.

We talk for a little while; about how winter vacation's going to end too quickly, about which upcoming parties were going to be epic and which would be made of suckage. I don't know, we never really seem to be saying anything at all when we're talking. I think we all just enjoy the sound of each others' voices; even Cartman's annoying little drawl-screech.

Stan starts talking about this cute girl in his Trig class, and I can't say I really sympathize with him much. The other two are handing out advice on what he should do to get the girl's attention.

Kyle of the opinion that he should just act like his usual jackass-sexy self. Which says a lot about Kyle, I think, but I keep my mouth shut on that. Cartman says something about just making her beg for it, and then telling her to go make him dinner. He hasn't improved on talking to chicks since we were nine. I don't think he ever will.

No one mentions Wendy. Not even me.

I figured out girls weren't really worth it after the first few times I brought one home. None of them understood why I wasn't _sooo_ upset over the fact that my mom and dad constantly fought. They told me that my parents were awful role models. When I begged to disagree, I got dumped.

Each and every time.

You know what; you got an issue with my 'rents? Well _fuck you_. You know what they get out of fighting? Hot _hot_ makeup sex. It's kind of the reason they do it. And how does that make them bad role models? It's not like they don't love each other, or me.

So yeah. Girls are useless. They think they know everything about everything, which totally isn't true.

Plus they never want to set things on fire behind the school. How's a pyro supposed to get his kicks?

Boobs are still cool, though. In fact, if there was any way you could lobotomize a chick legally and then keep her as a sex kitten, I'd so be there. All the fucking and none of the chit chat.

You might say that's cold, but I'm a dude. We've all thought it at one point or another. If you've got an issue with it you're quite obviously of the needing-a-lobotomy-persuasion. Damn females.

I _guess_ I also have an issue with the embarrassment factor. Cartman always used to say my house smelled like a sewer, and while that isn't particularly true, home sweet home's got a funk all of its own. Why would I want to bring girls there? So they can rag on my parents and my house? Fuck that shit.

I don't even like bringing my friends home, but at least they're joking when they give me hell for it.

Kind of.

We finally decide it's time to open presents. I hand my present over to Cartman, who predictably whines and bitches. I feel my face color slightly and pull my hood tighter around my face.

Stan gives his present to Kyle, an anxious smile playing at his lips. Poor kid's got it bad.

I always figured that if anyone in our group was going to get hit by the homo bug, it would be Stan. He's been going strong with the ladies though; something about the combination of the letterman jacket and the emo hair makes them cream their pants.

Go figure.

Cartman's present goes to Stan, and it looks like Mr. Kitty vomited wrapping paper on it. Fatboy has no idea how to wrap a gift.

Last but not least, Kyle gives his present to me.

It's nowhere near as big as I expected. This isn't greed talking, just surprise. Kyle's gifts are usually predictable, but this neatly wrapped present he just handed me is tiny. I have no idea what's inside. I look up in surprise, blond hair shading my eyes.

I wonder if Kyle can even see my face from beneath the shadows of my parka hood. He's got a look of fierce concentration on his face, aimed directly at me. I think he's excited to see my expression.

Gingerly, I begin the process of unwrapping the gift, savoring the feeling.


	2. Come On, Fallen Star

Kyle gave me jewelry.

I mean, okay, its guy jewelry, but how gay can you get? He's looking at me all tentative and hopeful while my grubby fingertips are stroking the shiny metal of the bracelet type thing in the box. I'm not going to tell him I would've preferred a dock for my iPod; not when he's staring at me like that.

"Thanks, dude," I utter, trying to sound totally gleeful and full of holiday cheer. Do Jews do holiday cheer? Here's hoping. He seems fooled, anyway.

I know, it's Christmas. I should suck it up and be fucking grateful. But jewelry? Dude, really?

From another guy? I told you my friends were fags.

Shaking my head, I tuck the box into the front pocket of my parka before he can ask whether or not I'm going to wear it.

He's _thinking_ it, I swear.

"So what are we going to do now?" Kyle asks, and maybe I was wrong and he can tell that his gift made me uncomfortable, because he's looking anywhere but me now.

I almost miss having those killer green eyes trained on my face, because it's rare that I get that kind of avid attention. Unless it's from a cop trying to find something to arrest me for. Or form my little sister, trying to figure out whether passion pink or ruby red grapefruit lipstick better suits my skin tone.

"We're going to party," Stan cheers, and I consider once again that I should have let Kyle and Cartman dump him in the fucking Pond.

"No," I correct, shoving my hands deep in my jeans pockets, "You're going to party. I'm going to work."

"Kenneh," Cartman whines at me, his big fat lips letting little bits of spittle fly into my face. Eurgh.

"Yeah?" I ask, wiping the spit off my cheeks with my free hand.

God. Now I'm probably infected with elephantitis or something. I can't afford to get as big as Cartman. My family would never be able to feed me.

"Why don't you want to parteh?"

Sweet Jesus.

"What part of _I have to work_ do you not understand?" I'm snarling just a little, like a feral dog. Shit. I always get like this when someone wants me to go have fun and I have no choice but to work.

Merry fucking Christmas.

"But Ken," Kyle interrupts softly, "It's Christmas."

Gee. Really?

I'm this close to snapping at him. What the hell does Kosher Boy know about Christmas anyway?

Stan gives me a warning look and that's all I need to remember to keep my mouth shut. It's not Kyle's fault that I have to work every day of the week just to stay fed. I say, "I know, but my boss needs me."

"Call in sick!" Cartman protests.

"Why would I do that?" I give him the most ludicrous look ever. The fatass has no concept of responsibility. It makes me kind of jealous.

I used to be the same way, until Kyle took me aside last year and told me to suck it up and make something of myself. Which is why the pitying glances he's giving me now are really annoying.

"Maybe you can get off early?" Stan inquires brightly. He's always trying to make the best of a bad situation.

"Maybe," I agree, even though I know my hick of a boss is spending the whole night at some get-wasted-and-screw party with his wife. I think they're the redneck version of swingers. That or they're just promiscuous whores.

"See Kyle? Kenny could still come to the party!"

Kyle is smiling again. Only Stan makes him smile like that. They're super best friends, after all.

I mean, how gay is it to think of somebody as your super best friend anyway? That's a title that just screams _flaming_.

"Where's the party?"

"At Red's. Her parents are out of town," the redheaded Jew tells me, gathering up his stuff.

His fingers must be numb, because they keep slipping off the mangled wrapping paper of his present from Stan. I don't even feel the cold, but that might be because most of my nerve endings are dead from the brisk walk over here. I've probably lost three toes to hypothermia already.

"A'ight," I kick at the frozen ground beneath me, hoping that it's too dark for them to really see my expression.

Sadly, the stars and the moon are out full force tonight, and considering the fact I can see every freckle on Stan's unnaturally tan nose, I'm pretty sure that they saw.

Wisely, none of the fags say anything. Well, for a minute, until Cartman opens his mouth and blurts, "And make sure you take a shower so your po' stink doesn't drive all the hos away."

I grimace and shove him, hard.

"Shut the fuck up, lardass."

I have a grasp of basic hygiene. Just because I don't get to enact it every day doesn't mean I don't know that I should be taking showers, washing my face, flossing, and brushing my teeth.

Oh, and using soap after I pee.

At first, I didn't care that I couldn't do the same things as normal kids. Now I have my own convenience store-stolen stash of products. Mostly because I'd like to keep my teeth until I'm at least eighty.

I watch them leave.

Stan and Kyle are huddling together for warmth, and Cartman's got all his rolls of fat to keep him toasty. They're headed off to Red's, where they'll drink eggnog and whiskey and fucking girlie holiday drinks that'll warm them in a different way.

And then maybe they'll meet a girl.

Well, maybe _Stan_ or _Kyle_ will meet a girl. If they don't decide to get gay with each other.

That'll warm them even more.

Meanwhile, I'll be at the Stop-N-Pump, freezing my skinny ass off trying to help out some dumb college chick from Jersey who doesn't know how to pump her own gas, or some asshole who can't figure out how to insert his credit card with the magnetic strip facing downward.

 _It's alright_ , I think, kicking the tree stump once for good measure. It makes a much more satisfying thud than the ground did.

As I walk to work, bracing myself against the cold, I think that I didn't want to go to the party anyway. I like the liquor, but I don't really like the girls, and I'm not a fan of parties. All that noise.

Maybe they just ain't my thing. I dunno.

Aw, who the fuck am I fooling? I wanna go to the party.

I don't get to, of course. I wrap up work near two in the morning. When I call Stan, he mutters something drunk and unintelligible into the phone.

Party's over, I guess.

I end up getting home to find my living room pitch black and my mother on the couch, sobbing her eyes out.

"Ma, calm down," I tell her, watching her hyperventilate, "What's the matter?"

"O-oh, Kenny," she sobs, "The electricity went out again. I was jus'- jus' trying to tell yer sister a nice Christmas story before she went to sleep, and then the lights-"

She hiccupped, effectively stopping the story. I could figure out the rest.

"Ma, it's just lights. Why didn't you put the candles out?"

"I used 'em all at T-thanksgiving."

"Did you forget I made you a stash under the porch?" I ask, trying to soothe her.

I don't ask where dad is, and why he's not doing this. I already know the answer.

Oddly enough, I don't resent him for being at the bar when my mom's crying on the couch. He can't really help it. He loves her, but he doesn't know how to deal with her moods.

Plus he can't stand being away from the booze for too long, which I understand. I've been trying to quit smoking, and the only thing that's gotten me is jittery nerves and a constant foul demeanor.

"I did," she gasps, "K-Karen must hate me."

"I doubt that, Ma. She's probably fast asleep. It's two, y'know?"

"Two?" she gives me this look, so full of childlike wonder that I have a feeling she's been sneaking Oxycontin from the grocery pharmacy again. My mother likes her pain killers, when she can get 'em. She also likes washing them back with jugs of wine.

"Yeah, Ma."

I help her up and into her bedroom, where she gets naked in a flash.

Jesus. I so didn't need to see that.

My mom probably sounds like some druggie bitch addict, doesn't she? She's not. This is a once every couple of months kind of thing.

She just likes to have fun, and sometimes having fun means dosing herself up with strong painkillers when dad's not around to occupy her time.

Making my way into my room, I collapse on my bed. It's dark, but that doesn't bother me. I like the dark. It makes it easier to see the blazing stars outside my window. I really like stars.

Even though they're so far away, sometimes they fall down the earth, like they want to get closer to us too. We get a lot of shooting stars 'round these parts.

Maybe I'm just philosophizing about nothing.

I've just about fallen asleep when I hear the knocking on my window. I see a glimpse of green outside my window, belonging to that damn worn out old hat Kyle always wears. Sure enough, when I manage to drag my ass up and over, I see him there, balancing on some old moving crates and a trash can.

"What the hell're you doing, dude?" I hiss, opening the window. Don't want to wake mom or Karen, or God forbid, Kevin, up. They'll yell like nobody's business if I interrupt their sleep.

"Kenny!" Kyle practically squeals, apparently delighted by the fact that I'm standing here.

Oh yeah. He's trashed.

"Dude," I mutter. I reach over the side of my house, ignoring the peeling paint scraping up against my elbows as I lift him up and through my window. He helps, kinda. Thank God for that, because I'm not strong enough to lift mister _center forward of the basketball team_ all on my lonesome.

"Kenny!"

"Yeah," I stare at him as he stumbles back onto my bed, making the whole house shake, "You said that already. How was the party?"

"The party was…" he starts cracking up, and I think he either drank way too much or someone slipped him somethin'.

"You weren't at the party!" he suddenly accuses, sitting straight up.

"Uh, no. I had to work. I told you."

"But Stan said you would come!"

"Stan said I would try to come," I correct, almost amused that I'm having a conversation on semantics with the smartest boy in school.

He's looking at me in much the same way my mom did before, "So Stan didn't lie?"

"Um. No. Stan didn't lie," I say, shoving a hand through my hair. I really want him to move so I can get back down on my bed.

"Oh. Good," and then he's dozing away, full out snoring so loud my window frame's shaking. Apparently, I've got the couch tonight.

Well, shit.


	3. Nobody Gives A Fuck

I like to think that I’ve got something going for me other than my devilish charm and my enthralling good looks.

No, really.

I’m not the most intelligent guy in town, sure, but I wouldn’t want to be. Being too smart has got to be lonely. Being at the top always is.

On the other hand, I’m not stupid, either.

I’m not!

Okay, so before Kyle convinced me to get my act together, I was pretty much convinced that I was going to rot in South Park. Slow asphyxiation seemed like a more promising alternative than my future. But now, thanks to that sneaky Jew, I have options.

Options, for a guy like me, are pretty much a miracle.

What’s _not_ a miracle is how _rank_ Kyle’s breath smells this morning.

I wake up to find our limbs inextricably intertwined. Kyle’s knee is uncomfortably close to my junk, and not just because he likes to toss in his sleep. There’s no delicate way to say that you’re attracted to one of your best friends, so I’ll be blunt. I find Kyle’s skinny ass immensely arousing. Sometimes I look at him and I want nothing more than to wind my fingers deep into that Jew fro of his and kiss him breathless.

I might be exaggerating a little. He’s kind of cute. Sometimes I think that I wouldn’t mind getting drunk and kissing his brains away, but it’s not like I’m desperate. He’s attractive. There are a lot of appealing dudes in this town. Kyle Broflovski is one of them.

I was blessed with immensely fuckable friends. Woe is me.

This doesn’t make me gay or anything.

It doesn’t.

 _Shut up_ , it really doesn’t. Physically, I might allow myself vague moments of interest in the male anatomy, but guys aren’t my cup of noodles. Just because chicks ain’t worth it doesn’t mean I don’t find their breasts attractive or nothing, you know?

That's why his man-jewelry freaked me out so much.

“Kyle,” I nudge his leg with my foot, which happens to be my only free extremity.

I was going to sleep on the couch last night. Then I wouldn’t have been in this predicament.

Why didn’t I sleep on the couch?

Oh yeah. Because Kyle latched on to my ankle and drooled all over my foot before pulling me onto the bed. I was too tired to struggle, so I just fell asleep.

Damned Jew. He doesn’t move.

“Kyle!” I try hissing a little louder. It’s only say, eleven a.m., tops, which means that Mom and Pop haven’t cracked an eyelid yet. No need to be unnecessarily loud and get them all riled up, is there?

Unfortunately my little redheaded friend doesn’t seem to want to rise and shine.

If anything, he snuggles closer to me, his hand warm on my hipbone. Aw, geez.

If you’re not familiar with the phenomena of morning wood, it doesn’t mean you wake up and get instantly aroused by the beige paint on your walls. It means that you wake up already hard and raring to go for _no reason at all_. Having Kyle all up in my nooks and crannies certainly doesn’t help the case.

I spend the next five minutes trying to tell Kenny Junior to behave himself or he’s not going to get to reap the benefits of the porno video I stole from Kevin a few nights back.

Apparently trying to con your dick with vintage VHS doesn’t do much.

Mostly it leaves me resenting the fact that my family can’t afford a computer like everyone else living in the twenty first century.

I guess I could put aside some money from my job, but that would seriously cut into my college funds. I guess I’ll just wait until I hit it rich with the Pick Six Lotto.

“Kyle,” I reluctantly try again.

He’s not going to wake up and hate me for having a boner. He’s sporting one too, most likely.

I just would _prefer_ it if he didn’t wake up to find us in the faggiest position possible. I think sleeping this way breaks guy code, or something. Whatever.

I am entirely masculine. I don’t need to worry about things like this.

It’s just Kyle, after all.

“Wakey wakey, sweetums,” I mutter under my breath, nudging his leg again. My foot is icy cold, and this time I decide to use that to my advantage and rest it against his calf.

After a minute or so, his eyes flick open, startled. I’m suddenly staring into a sea of emerald green.

“Wha- Kenny?” he asks, his voice puzzled.

Great, my bed-head confounds the great genius Jew.

“Nice to see you too, sunshine.”

Kyle shoots out of bed, never mind that he has to extricate his legs from mine so quickly that he must have foot whiplash. If that’s possible.

“What are you doing in my room?”

Or the great _moronic_ Jew. Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?

Patiently I say, “You’re in my room.”

It comes out more a drawl than anything else. Kyle narrows his eyes and glances around. He takes in my grimy walls, my tilted, torn posters, and the accumulated garbage strewn amongst my dirty clothes.

Then he nods.

“Oh.”

Yeah. _Oh_. That’s the only way to describe my shithole of a room. _Oh_.

“Do you want breakfast?” I ask briskly, standing and brushing off the pair of ratty sweatpants I wore to sleep.

“Breakfast would be good,” he replies, still wearing that confused expression. He’s wondering why he woke up in my bed.

He’s wondering what happened.

Maybe he’s just wondering what time it is, but that wouldn’t be what _I_ was asking myself if I woke up in another dude’s bed.

I hurry out of the room. It’s kind of amusing seeing Kyle so lost.

I don’t want to ruin the fun.

Burying my head in the freezer, I dig out a box of Eggo Waffles and stick them in the toaster. They’re mildly charred by the time Kyle walks in, just the way I like them.

“Kenny, did you call my mom?”

“Dude, do I look like your babysitter? No way am I getting on the phone with your mom, ever.”

He glares at me reproachfully, “She’s going to freak.”

“Not my fault.”

“What happened? Why am I here?”

I don’t half know myself. Good question, Broflovski.

“No clue,” I say, munching on a side of waffle, “You showed up at my window round two thirty, complaining ‘cause I didn’t show up at the party.”

Kyle’s face reddens, “I don’t remember any of that.”

“Must’ve been some party.”

“It was,” Kyle murmurs, his eyes distant, “Wendy and Cartman hooked up on the pool table.”

I raise an eyebrow, “Stan must’ve been crushed.”

“Not so much as you’d think,” Kyle mumbles, and I distinctly spot more blushing. Ok-ay. Strange.

“Did Stan hook up too?”

Him and Wendy have been dating on and off for years, but he’s never been much for fidelity. Especially not if the bitch strayed first.

Kyle abruptly switches subjects, “Let’s talk about something else, Ken.”

Interesting. Very interesting.

Either Stan had a rousing case of public nudity to protest his ex’s sick attraction, or he ended up getting it on with someone very unseemly. I wonder if it’s that sophomore with the overbite that’s been stalking him.

I resolve myself to ask Stan about it later. He’s only slightly less squeamish than Kyle, but it’ll only take a teensy bit of persuasion to get him to tell me about his exploits.

I am that charming, after all.


	4. When I Close My Eyes I See

Most kids think winter break is just about the coolest thing to hit town since sliced bread.

I never really got how sliced bread is supposed to be cool though, unless you’re poor like me, and you really would kill to eat some fucking bread.

Off topic.

Anyway, I personally find winter break equivalent to one of the circles of hell. I haven’t read Dante, so I have no blitzing idea which one, but there it is.

You know what I get to do for my winter vacation, while all the other kids are figuring out new and creative ways to kill themselves tobogganing? Yeah, I’m working.

Now, I really appreciate my job at the Stop-N-Pump. I had to basically beg to get it three years ago when the manager was still unsure about hiring a fifteen year old liability. That’s what he called me, a liability. I had to explain to him as nicely as possible that I ain’t no liability, and that no one in town needed the money more than I did.

Luckily, the place was owned by a nice Sikh man who understood the value of hard work. He decided to try me out. By the time he got driven out of town by a bunch of pitchfork wielding ‘concerned citizens’, I’d been working there for six months and had a contract. The place changed hands to my new boss, but he had to either pay me some kind of severance or keep me.

I got lucky. He’s a cheapskate bastard of a redneck, and didn’t actually care that I was still technically a ‘liability’.

Just because I appreciate the fact that I get to work doesn’t mean I really have to like it, though. Spending my days assisting the morons who come by in their shiny little hybrids doesn’t really tickle me pink, if you know what I mean.

So when break finally comes to an end, there isn’t a happier teenager around. I may have missed all the parties, and I may have missed the chance to almost nearly break my neck sledding down a hill, but I’ve got enough money in my pocket to pay for lunch for the next few weeks and I managed to slip mom enough that we might actually have groceries to boot. As a reward, now it’s practically the mandate of heaven that I get to spend time with my friends.

Heaven, or the government enforced laws that say I have to attend school.

Whatever. Right now heaven and the government are both distant, make believe places, while school is very, very real.

I was never much fond of classes, but I always liked having an excuse to spend time with Kyle, Stan, and even Cartman. This year it’s no different. I’m practically skipping to the bus stop today, ready to hear all the latest gossip. I don’t know if you know this about boys, but we gossip.

Oh, yeah. We talk more than girls do, sometimes. But don’t tell anyone. It would really ruin our reputations.

Stan’s the only one standing there, knee deep in snow, when I reach the bus stop. He’s shivering, listening to his iPod with his blue-eyed gaze affixed to the slate colored sky. Perfect. Exactly who I wanted to speak to. I lumber over to him, yanking an earbud from his ear.

“Ow! Kenny? What the hell, asshole?”

I grin, “Nice to see you too.”

Stan isn’t a morning person. Not that I am either. But I enjoy torturing my friends, which means I’m considerably more cheerful than he is.

He softens, but only slightly, “Yeah, yeah. Nice to whatever.”

“Ooh, grumpy today, are we?”

“I’m not grumpy,” he snaps.

“How was your vacation?”

“It sucked ass.”

“Well that doesn’t sound fun,” I purse my lips theatrically, knowing that I’m just pissing him off more.

“You think, dickhole?”

I think of Kyle’s reaction when I asked him about Stan after Red’s party. I hate to admit this, but it’s been killing me wondering what happened.

I have what some might call insatiable curiosity. Others might just call me nosy.

Others can suck my balls.

I also lack tact.

“So, I heard Wendy and Cartman hooked up. Are they like, datin’ now?” I emphasize my natural drawl a teensy bit, just to annoy him more.

The way to get information out of Stan Marsh is to make him really angry. When he’s in a rage he finds it impossible to keep his mouth shut, which is exactly what I’m aiming for.

“Where’d you hear that?” he turns a strange look on me, half-piercing, half-nervous.

“Around,” I shrug, trying to look completely casual. It’s hard to be casual when you’re brimming with the desire to _know_ , but I manage, somehow.

“D-did Kyle tell you anything?” Stan asks, his voice coming out choked.

“Kyle?” I run a hand through my hair thoughtfully, acting perfectly neutral, “No, I don’t think so. Should he have?”

“Um…n-no. Nothing. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Innocent as possible, I ask, “Stan? Did something happen?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” I’m trying my best to look like a concerned friend. I mean, I am a concerned friend, but Kyle didn’t react badly enough for it to be anything to serious. Sure, Stan’s wound up, but Stan always gets wound up. The boy has more stress than the CEOs of most major companies.

“Drop it Kenny,” he warns.

I frown. This isn’t going quite like I’d hoped. Time for Plan B.

“Well, okay. But you know, Kyle did mention something a little strange…”

I trail off hopefully, figuring he’ll infer what he needs to. He does.

“He told you?” Stan explodes, “I can’t believe he told you. Oh my god, Kenny, it’s not at all like you’re thinking it is. I just…I was upset, about Wendy, right? I’d been flirting with Red, and she only hooked up with Cartman to piss me off, but either way, Red had got me all wound up, and then I got upset. And I needed to let off some steam, so I figured, I could just duck in the bathroom for like, a second.”

The bathroom? What? I listen, attempting to make sense of his babbling.

“So then I’m…well, you know, obviously, and all of a sudden I just…God, this is so _embarrassing_. I can’t believe he told you. Cartman’s right. Jews are total backstabbing Judases.”

“Stan, slow down,” I say, “and tell me what happened.”

“Well,” he breathes, his cheeks scarlet, “All of a sudden, I was…and then…I saw Kyle’s face. In my head, I mean. Usually I think about Wendy, but I was so mad at her, so I started to think about Red, because she’s hot, and she was on my mind anyway. But I couldn’t really picture her face right, and I like that. So I thought of red hair…”

I’m starting to understand why Stan’s so mortified. The picture he’s painting is a little more…personal than I’d been bargaining for.

“AndthenIscreamedhisnamejustwhenhebargedinthebathroom.”

 _What_? I look at him blankly.

“Stan, you have to say it slower.”

He looks at me, seething, “I said I screamed Kyle’s name just when he barged in the bathroom.”

“You…um…oh.”

“But you already knew that, right Kenny?”

I stay quiet. Stan’s glowering at me.

“Kenny? Kyle _did_ tell you this, didn’t he?”

“Um. Not in so many words.”

“Kenny!”

“Okay, well how was I supposed to know you think about Kyle when you masturbate? What the hell were you doing masturbating at Red’s party anyway?”

Stan reddens even more, “That’s how I let off steam.”

“You’re a sexual deviant, Marsh.”

“Kenny! I am not! You can’t tell anyone!”

“I won’t,” I say, although I’m reasonably sure it doesn’t sound reassuring. I wouldn’t tell though. I’m not that big of a jerk.

Hesitant, Stan asks, “You’ve never wanked it at a party?”

I grin, “Nope. Never.”

“Never?” he gulps.

“Never had the need.”

I’m just being mean, I know. Stan’s so cute when he’s all morally outraged. And I so called those nasty ol’ homosexual urges in him. I knew wasn't the only one who toyed with the idea.

Not that I’ve ever jerked it to a dude. That’s just gross, man.

“Dude. I’m such a prick.”

“Pretty much.”

“Kyle’s never going to forgive me. He came in the bathroom to make me feel better about Wendy…”

“About her being such a skank?” I guess.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll forgive you. I think he already has,” I try to sound comforting, “In fact, here he comes now.”

Stan’s whirls on his foot so quick that he almost falls into me. There in the distance is our favorite redhead. I wonder if I should tell him that I know his deep dark secret now?

Maybe I’ll just see what kind of mood he’s in first.

 


	5. All The Secrets And No One To Tell

Kyle’s in a fine mood. Unlike Stan and me, he is a morning person.

It’s an obnoxious quirk of his that I let slide because he’s so attractive, and you know, one of my best friends. Nobody should be so bouncy at eight a.m. unless they’ve ingested several Red Bulls and a caffeine pill or two to boot.

He calls out a greeting to us, which we both return. Stan gives me this anxious look that I feel almost bad about. He knows I’m going to mock him, if not in public, to Kyle at the very least.

“Kenny, dude-“

“Stan!” Kyle interrupts, red cheeked from the cold, “I thought you were driving today.”

“Mom wouldn’t lend me the car,” he mumbles, “Too much snow.”

Kyle gives him a weird look. He doesn’t get why Stan seems so embarrassed, “Oh.”

They must have either talked out what happened or Kyle decided to just ignore it, because he’s acting perfectly normal, unlike my dark haired friend.

The bus screeches to a stop about two minutes after Cartman arrives, huffing, puffing, and stuffing a doughnut down his face. We climb on, me last. I grab hold of Kyle’s jacket and hiss, “I figured out what got your boxers in a bunch.”

He gives me a sharp glance, stopping in his tracks, but I breeze by him.

I take a seat beside Cartman, ignoring the fatass’s annoyed glare. Butters is in front of us, and he immediately launches into a description of the ‘neato’ sweater his parents got him for Christmas. Cartman groans and takes up staring out the window. I half listen to Butters, but most of my attention is on Stan and Kyle, the next seat over. They’re whispering in hushed tones, but I doubt it’s about the whole masturbation incident. I can feel Kyle’s eyes on me the entire bus ride.

Getting off the bus, I nearly fall on my ass. I fucking hate ice. It’s been sheeting the ground for months now. I’m not sure I actually remember what asphalt looks like.

Summer can’t come soon enough, but at the same time, I hope this semester lasts forever.

Kyle helped me send out college applications in November. I only applied to a few schools. I doubt I’ll get in anywhere, even if I do have some funds saved up. My grades are only average. My SATs too.

Kyle says my score is enough to land me a decent school. I’m glad he believes in me. I still find it hard to trust that I can achieve something I work for, even if it does seem like things are looking up. All I can think is that mom and dad will be so damned disappointed if I don’t get accepted somewhere.

Anywhere.

Sure, I could go to the Community College with Kevin, but they’ve been pinning their hopes on me for a real education for ages. Not high school part two.

Everyone’s scrambling for their lockers before the bell rings, but I can feel a green eyed gaze on me.

“Kenny,” Kyle hisses.

“Hey, Kyle. Wha’sup?”

“Dude, you talked to Stan,” he says in a blunt way.

“Stan told you?”

“No. You did,” he groans, “I wish you’d just left it alone. Stan’s so embarrassed that I can’t even get him to look at me.”

“And you’re not embarrassed?”

He reddens a bit, going the color of his hair, “I am. I just…I want my best friend back, you know?”

I frown and say pointedly, “I’m your best friend too.”

Exasperated, he mutters, “Well, duh. You know what I mean, Kenny.”

Yeah. I do. I’m his best friend, but I’m not Stan. I’m not the Super Best Friend.

Fags.

We’re walking up the steps now. Everyone else has fled inside. Out of the blue, Kyle says, “Let’s skip.”

My head snaps toward him, “What?”

“You heard me,” he retorts, somewhat amused.

Oh yeah. I heard him. I just didn’t think I heard right.

“Broflovski, you fuckin’ surprise me sometimes.”

He grins, “Gotta keep it interesting.”

The way he grins is pretty interesting. He hasn’t got that corn-fed, All American perfect smile like Stan. Of course his teeth aren’t a mess like mine, either. My parents couldn’t afford dental. I’m pretty good at brushing, but I still have a bit of a crooked smile. I decide that Kyle’s smile is more in between, a mixture of pearly white and differently shaped teeth when I realize…I’m staring at Kyle’s mouth.

You know, for somebody who hasn’t decided if they’re actually even remotely into guys, I’m acting pretty homosexual.

We sneak around the side of the school, towards the gym. There’s nobody in there except the cheerleaders, who all have ‘study hall’, which is really code for practice, which is really code for ‘let’s-gossip-in-our-microscopic-skirts-and-hope-a-few-football-players-walk-by-and-notice’. Study hall is just less of a mouthful.

“Have you got a cigarette?” Kyle asks me, trying to give me a heart attack by acting completely out of character.

I give him a weird look, “What the hell’s up with you today? You’re acting like-“

“You?” he suggests.

“H’yeah.”

Okay, let’s get this straight right now. I don’t smoke. No, really, I don’t. I hate the way my fingertips reek afterwards; Cartman already makes fun of me enough about hygiene. Also, like I said, we can’t afford dental. I’ve got no desire to have teeth the color of sunflower petals. But on occasion I’ll lift a pack from my brother. He smokes so often he could get mistaken as a chimney, and I feel like I’m doing my fraternal duty by giving him one less chance at lung cancer.

Plus every once in a while it gives me something to do.

We settle down on the only dry spot on the pavement, and even so the cold seeps up through the butt of my jeans. I pull the pack out of my parka pocket and tap out a single smoke.

“Only one left,” I tell Kyle, “Kevin must have raided it.”

I’m not the only thief in the family, although big bro calls it _reclamation_. Funny how he also calls it that when he’s five-fingering packs from my place of employment. Kevin is such a prick.

The only lighter I have is decorated with the confederate flag; a true sign that we live in hicksville. I watch the flame catch onto the end of the paper between my lips. The smoke traces in lazy spiral patterns towards the low hanging clouds.

I pass the cigarette to Kyle, “So. That thing with Stan. Is it weird?”

He gives me a warning look, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

He puffs smoke out, obscuring his face for a minute in a haze of carcinogens and hot breath, fogging the cold air. Then he says, “Yeah. It’s weird.”

“In a bad way?”

“I don’t know. I mean, if Stan’s going to be gay, that’s great for him. But I don’t know if…”

“If you want him to be gay for you?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t even think he is gay. I mean, he was really fucked up that night. He did like five car bombs with Clyde. I’ve never seen anybody knock them back so quick. And then Wendy went all hobag on him…You know how it is.”

I don’t, but I don’t say so either.

After a moment, he passes the cigarette back. Inhale. Exhale. Take it deep in my lungs, the way they tell you not to, and then push it all back out again. I feel my mouth blacken, my brain scramble for air. Another reason I don’t smoke; it always makes me a little dizzy.

“Kenny?” he asks after a minute or so of exchanging the quickly burning cigarette. I turn to face him and find that his face is closer than I expected.

“Mm?”

I can’t manage actual words right now. Who’d have thought Kyle’s eyes were so damned…green? Not toxic green, like Melon Liquer, or green like the moss that grows on the trees near Stark’s pond in the summer. No, Kyle’s eyes are the color of fresh cut grass, or four leaf clovers. Lucky, that. Then there’s these little gold-gray rings…shit.

First I stare at his mouth, and now his eyes?

“Are you gay?”

“Uhhh…”

Now words are really impossible. I’d just been thinking what a super-fag I was, and then he asks that? How do you answer a question like that?

Shouting _no_ , which is my first impulse, seems like the wrong move.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“Um. Er-no. It’s okay. Um.”

He stares at me, expectant.

"Why would you ask that?”

Kyle slumps his shoulders, “It’s just…you’re not really big on girls. I see them ask you out a lot…”

“Bitches, most of them.”

“Well, yeah. But you’re a guy. You’re not supposed to mind,” he points out.

That’s true. Goddamnit.

“Girls just ain’t worth it, for me. It’s not like I can take ‘em home.”

“Why not?” he’s serious.

"Kyle, you’ve seen my house.”

“So?”

“It’s kind of trashy.”

“A little,” he admits without shame, “That doesn’t matter. Your parents are-“

“Loud. Slightly violent.”

“Nice,” he corrects, “I was going to say nice.”

Now I’m the one staring, and I can see the reflection of my eyes in his. Green. Blue. Green. Blue.

“You for real?”

“Well, yeah. They brought you up, so they can’t be half bad. Besides, they always give me waffles,” he says with a smirk. I let out this short bark of laughter.

I don’t know why, but his words make me feel good. Nobody’s ever said they like my ‘rents before. Nobody but me, and I have to like them. They’re blood.

“You think I turned out okay?”

“I think you turned out better than okay.”

“You’re delusional.”

“’ey,” he grins, “That’s my best friend you’re talking about.”

“Stan’s your best friend,” I rejoin.

He crosses his arms, the cigarette dangling between his fingers, burning so close to the butt that I think he might burn himself, “My other best friend.”

I open my mouth to say something when we hear footsteps. We scramble to our feet, extinguishing the cigarette butt beneath the soles of our sneakers. Kyle stomps on it a few extra times, just in case. God forbid we burned down the school.

The gunshot click clack of high heels get closer. I hope it’s not my math teacher. I hate math, and I hate the cunt who teaches it. She hates me right on back. We start to hurry towards the other side of the gym when a figure rounds the corner.

Well, it’s not my math teacher.

In front of us stands a girl, wearing a green and white Park County High sweatshirt that’s about two sizes too small and a denim mini skirt that’s showing off too much leg for winter. She’s wearing knee high stiletto boots and a honey sweet smile. Once upon a time I remember she had mousy brown hair. Now it’s shining golden blond; dyed, just like every other fake ass girl in our year.

Why do girls feel the need to lie? Not verbally, but physically. They put on makeup to mask their real face. They dye their hair to hide what they really look like. Sometimes they even adjust their breasts. That part I’m not actually complaining about.

In fact, I shouldn’t complain about any of it. Without makeup, half the girls in town would look like dogs.

“Kenny! Kyle!” she calls from where she stands, expecting us to walk to her. We sigh. Busted.

Meet Heidi Turner. Head cheerleader, secretary on the student council, groupie of Wendy Testaburger, and all around cliquey female. We trudge over to her, wondering what the hell she wants.

It would be prudent to mention that I don’t like Heidi very much.

Heidi envelops us in a wave of nauseating perfume, air kissing our cheeks. I don’t know why she thinks this is an acceptable form of greeting. She tries to slip up and _accidentally_ kiss me on the lips, but I dodge. I know her type. They think sex is status, and status is everything.

Sadly, it’s not even a high school thing. It’s a real world thing that I’ve gotten to understand too easily.   

“Kyle Broflovski,” she purrs after I reject her advance, “I can’t believe you, of all people, are skipping class.”

Kyle rolls his eyes, “I, of all people, needed a break, thanks.”

“Geniuses take breaks?” she squeaks in this little girl voice that she probably thinks is hella cute. I think it’s going to pierce my eardrums one day. That would be an unpleasant way to die; killed by shrillness.

Kyle doesn’t even dignify that with an answer. Good for him.

“And Kenny, I’m not surprised you’re skipping at all.”

This should be good.

“Why not, Heidi?”

“You like to be a bad boy, don’t you?”

Sweet fucking Jesus, woman. Lay it on thick, why don’t you?

This would be the reason I don’t like her. She’s been after me like a dog in heat since September. I see Kyle eyeing me with a ridiculous half-grin, which I return.

“No, not really.”

I don’t know what she expected. Did she want me to say, ooh yeah baby, I like to be bad? I mean, where do girls get these lines? Movies? Is this what the youth of America is learning these days?

Either way, she looks irked that I didn’t say what she wanted. Gee. I’m afraid. The big bad cheerleader is glaring at me. She might decide to go Carrie on my ass and dump blood on me at the prom.

“You guys are going to get in trouble.”

“Are we? We haven’t so far,” Kyle mutters, and I can tell that he’s already bored with the conversation, “Unless you’re planning on reporting us.”

“I might,” Heidi shrugs, a malicious smile playing on her lips.

I spot the first spark of fear in Kyle’s eyes. For all his bravado, he’s still a bit of a momma’s boy. Every time he gets a detention (and I’ll admit, they’re usually my fault. Or Cartman’s, the fat asshole) she goes on the warpath. Kyle has no apprehension of authority figures, but his mother is an entirely different story. That woman can move mountains when she’s in a rage.

The she-beast purses her lips and says, “Or…”

“Or what?” I snap, not liking being bullied. Especially by someone who’s five foot two. I’ve never understood why little people have superiority complexes. I guess seeing the world from down there must affect your belief system or something.

She glances at me, solemn, “Or…You guys could help me with the dance committee. We need some big strong men around to do the manual labor.”

“That’s what Mexicans are for,” I inform her. I know for a fact that Wendy has the number of several on speed dial. She never liked doing her dirty work all by her lonesome, and the Mexicans in this town come cheap.

“They’re getting cocky, overcharging. At least that’s what Wends says.”

Wends? Isn’t that an adorable nickname? I wonder if Cartman gave it to her. Pssh.

“So basically, if we don’t help you decorate for the dance, you’re going to report us to a teacher.”

Heidi smiles, “See. You are a genius. You do understand.”

I’d like to rip that smile off her face. I wonder if I’d get expelled from school for giving the head cheerleader a cigarette burn?

Kyle shoves his hands deep in his pockets. On the one hand, I can tell it offends his delicate morals to give into blackmail. God knows, he’s been strong armed enough by lardass in the past that he hates it. On the other hand, he’s really terrified of his mom.

“Okay,” I agree, taking the decision out of his hands. Anything to get rid of the wrinkle forming between Kyle’s eyebrows.

“Okay?” Heidi grins, licking her lips like the cat that caught the fucking canary.

Choke and die, bitch. Choke and die.

“Okay,” I say, my voice level. I meet her eyes, not liking what I see there. People who get off on subjugating others are a dime a dozen. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I decide that it’s okay to do so.

“You better get to class,” Heidi suggests, tilting her hips just so. Her mini skirt rides up to show more milky white thigh than usual. Against my will, I check to see if Kyle is looking. Is bitch his type?

He is, but he quickly glances away. He nods and says, “Alright.”

Then he marches away, not even looking back to check if I’m following. He knows I will. Bastard.

I take a step in his direction, but I find myself stopped by the cold, clawed grip of Miss Thang.

“Kenny,” she says in a low voice, “Stick around awhile.”

“I don’t think so,” I reply, extricating myself from her grasp. The smell of her perfume is overwhelming. It turns my stomach.

“What can I do to persuade you?” I swear to fucking god, her hand goes to the pocket of her too tight skirt and she pulls out a couple of crumpled up twenties, “Will this help?”

“You’re trying to buy me?” I ask, incredulous.

She looks at me, her eyes heavy lidded. Girls think they can get everything with their bedroom eyes and their perky little breasts. And she does have mighty fine breasts.

“Consider it…incentive,” she murmurs, “I heard you’re a great lay.”

Dude. Not on my life.

Coolly I reply, “I’m not for sale.”

“Why? Because you’re a fag?” she sneers at me.

I shrug and snort, “So what if I am? Either way, I’d never sleep with you. Prob’ly get the clap or somethin’.”

I don’t stick around to watch her get offended. She’s worthless.

“Fucking redneck queer!” she yells after me, but I keep walking. She means nothing. Nothing.

I have to keep telling myself this every time it happens.

Imagine what it’s like to be so poor that people think your body’s got a fucking barcode on it. I’ve had people offer me money before, girls and boys. I turn it down every time. No matter how poor my family gets, I’m not a whore. I’ve thought about it, a lot of times. It would be so easy. Sex is just so damned easy.

Looking in the mirror afterwards isn’t.

I chase after Kyle, and find him waiting around the corner. He grins at me and says, “So, wanna go to Shakey’s?”

“You still want to skip?” I demand, feeling a grin tug at my lips. Hell yes. I knew there was a bit of the devil in the redhead yet.

“Only if you’re up for it, Ken.”

I feel something in my stomach turn, but this time in a good way. Like warmth and light are pooling there.

“I’m up for anything,” I answer, twisting my mouth into a smirk, “Let’s go.”

See, this kind of thing? It’s what makes living worthwhile.


	6. You Can Change Your Mind, That's Just The Way It Goes

I spend the entire day with Kyle. For a smart kid, he’s a riot to hang out with. He likes to people watch, to point out flaws in those who walk by.

“Dude, that chick totally looks like she has Down’s syndrome.”

“That was so politically incorrect that I’m not even going to comment, man,” I mutter, trying to stifle a laugh into the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

“Oh come on!” Kyle blows air between his lips, making a whistling noise, “You can’t live life so seriously.”

“So I should ruthlessly make fun of people who are so ugly that they look like they might have some kind of disability? Have you ever considered that maybe that’s insulting to those with the disability?”

Kyle thinks about it for a second, his eyes crinkling with concentration. Then he says, “No.”

I roll my eyes heavenward, “Do you care?”

He laughs, “Not really. Jesus Kenny, lighten the fuck up.”

“I’m just saying, doesn’t it piss you off when people make fun of that gigantic Jew nose of yours?”

Kyle stomps his foot like a third grader and says in an ironic voice, “But I have a gigantic Jew nose. I accept the physical deformations God gave me, and so should Down’s syndrome face lady over there.”

I’m no longer able to play the Devil’s advocate. I can’t help it. I’m shaking with laughter.

“Dude. You’re so mean. And your nose is not a deformation.”

“I know, but we can’t all be as stunningly attractive as me, so I thought I’d try to lower myself to fit in with the rest of you plebes.”

I shift towards him, gasping, “Douche. What the fuck do you mean, the rest of us? You’re categorizing me with that lady? She looks like someone hit her face with a brick.”

“Oh, that’s not insulting at all,” Kyle grins, his eyes on the woman in question who does in fact have a rather unfortunate face. It slightly resembles a pug. It doesn’t help that she’s decided to dress herself in what looks like a recycled brown paper bag. I swear, ugly people would be so much more tolerable if they at least had some semblance of fashion sense.

I pick at the holes in my jeans, laughing inwardly at the thought. I’m hardly an authority on the matter.

“Shut up. I am not ugly,” I tell him, indignant. How dare he imply that I look anything like pug-face? Pssh. He’s lucky he can even be in my presence. I may not be a young god on earth or anything, but I’m definitely attractive.

Right?

Shit. Am I hideous, and no one ever thought to tell me?

I think he can read the panic on my face.

“I didn’t say you were ugly,” Kyle chuckles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

I envy the way he can look so casual in an outfit that probably costs more than my family scrapes up in a month. I know I saw that shirt he’s wearing in one of those hoity toity stores in the mall, as my mom likes to call them. Mostly because she’s envious that she can’t shop there. She’d probably be kicked out should the second she ever tried to step in one. Don’t get me wrong. I love the lady. She just has a very peculiar stench.

I think they call it Eau de No Money.

“So?”

“I just said you’re not quite as gorgeous as me,” he teases, fluttering his eyelashes spastically. He has nice eyelashes. Long, full, and so, so red. They make the green of his eyes really pop and shit, I’m doing it again.

Do you know how fucking hard it’s been for me, all day, to not stare at Kyle? The guy’s attractive, sure, but this is something deeper. I’m starting to think I might be developing a condition.

A condition called Can’t-Take-Your-Eyes-Off-The-Sexy-Jew-Syndrome.

I think of Stan, and realize I’m not the only one affected by it. I’ve rarely spent entire days alone with Kyle, but now that I have, it seems like I’m getting more and more infatuated with him. He’s got this sense of humor that for lack of a better word…fucking sparkles. That was two words. Oh well.

And I’ve already established that he’s a fine specimen of a guy. I’ve spent more than a few minutes fantasizing about how scrawny he really is beneath those clothes of his. Plus he’s so damnably nice. Well, not to pug-face, but to me. People rarely find the time to be kind to poor boys. People rarely find time to acknowledge me at all. In fact, maybe it’s Kyle’s attention that I find so intoxicating. I can’t tell. I don’t even know if I care. As long as he keeps looking at me, talking to me; I’m happy.

I’m not going to act on it or anything. I’m not going to do anything at all. Days like these, when you can laugh so loud that you feel it all the way to your stomach; they’re rare. I plan on enjoying it. Who knows when I’m going to get another one? It’s not worth it to ruin my mood by thinking about what I do or do not feel towards my own gender.

Which doesn’t stop me from bringing it up.

“You,” I begin, “You are such a homo.”

“Why? Because I embrace my inner gorgeous?” Kyle’s voice goes up in pitch on the last word, making him sound like one of those stereotypical gay guys on TV. He even does this little twirl thing that I’m absolutely certain he learned from Big Gay Al. I told him and Stan that if they spent too much time with that guy that his cooties would rub off.

“Yeah. Exactly,” I look away from him in mock-disgust, but I’m still trembling with laughter.

He places his hands on hips, cocking his head to the side, “Maybe it’s time you do the same thing, Kenny.”

My heart beats like crazy. I glance up, confused at his serious tone, “Wait, what?”

“You never answered my question.”

And there goes the day. He just had to ruin it.

“What question?” I ask, even though my mind has already raced back to earlier in the day. I hear his voice in my head. Are you gay? How am I supposed to really answer something like that?

“You know what question,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes.

We’re standing on Main Street, and he wants me to confess to the world that I like cock? I don’t think so.

“Refresh my memory,” I say, grabbing his forearm and pulling him after me into the little alley way between Shakey’s Pizza and Harbucks. It smells like oregano and the sticky sweet pungency of old milk and flavored syrups. I have to avoid trampling over rotting garbage, which spills over the frost covered ground like so much toxic waste. Here and there I can see the black of the asphalt, glittering with mica chips like diamonds in the filtered sunlight.

“Taking me back here to ravish me?” he asks with an arched eyebrow. I swear to Jesus, this boy might be channeling the devil. He’s smiling that irksome, crooked smile of his that shouldn’t have any impact except to annoy me, but somehow makes my stomach do back flips. I’m not even going to think about what that might mean.

“You wish, Broflovski.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs his shoulders and grins even wider, “So, does that mean you’re into dudes?”

Okay. This is so not a laughing matter. I think of how calmly he asked me before, and how he seems to be taking it as some kind of twisted joke now. And it hurts. I don’t know why, but I fucking feel like he stabbed me or something, because he’s treating me like I’m invincible, like I’m not a real person.

I’m Kenny McCormick. Fuck, maybe I’m not real to him.

“I thought we went over that,” I admonish him, releasing his arm. Mostly because I’m uncomfortable touching him when he’s asking me something like this. Then I’d have to associate ‘gay’ with him, with touching him. My mind might start to play tricks on me; make me think I’m ‘gay’ for him.

Maybe I fucking am.

I don’t know anymore.

It’s weird the shit your mind comes up with when you’re not paying attention. Like right now I’m focused on the shiny glint of the safety pins holding his Converses together, and the way the snow’s drifted into patterns like the lace doilies Cartman’s whore of a mom puts out all over her house. Sometimes it looks like the place experienced an explosion of the Martha Stewart Collection. Odd how it can be replicated, here, in a trash ridden alley.

“You told me girls aren’t worth it,” he proclaims smartly, “That’s not an answer-”

I shove my hand over his mouth, cutting off whatever else he had to say, “Dude. Do you have to be so loud? Announce it to the whole town, why don’t you? They can throw me a fuckin’ comin’ out party.”

Kyle glares at me balefully, and mumbles something against my palm. Shit, his lips are soft. I pull my hand away like he burned me, mostly because I can’t control the tingling feeling of his mouth moving against my skin.

“Wha’sat?” I ask, trying to cover for my completely un-smooth move.

“I said I wasn’t that loud,” he scowls, rubbing at his lips. Maybe to get rid of the taste of me. I look away.

“Anyway, Kenny, what you said before? That’s not an answer, that’s an excuse.”

“It’s not,” I insist, my temper rising, “Girls are annoying.”

I imagine what my dad would say if he knew this conversation ever took place. He would think his son was less than a man. That’s what I’d be, if I were gay.

But I’m not. I just get turned on by boys on occasion. Like Kyle.

And I don’t like girls.

It doesn’t mean anything.

I swear.

“Girls like Heidi Turner are annoying,” Kyle corrects, like I didn’t know she was the anti-Christ rather than the norm, “They’re not all like that. If introducing them to your parents is the only problem, you shouldn’t be confused about your sexuality. You’ll find a girl who accepts you for you.”

Yeah. I’ll find a girl who doesn’t mind Christmas shopping at the dollar store and experiencing embarrassing body odor every time we go to visit the family. I’ll find a girl who doesn’t mind that my grandpa thought the Confederates won, and that my dad thinks scotch is a suitable replacement for oxygen.

Fat fuckin’ chance.

“Gee, thanks Doctor Phil,” I say scathingly, “Who the hell said I’m confused about my sexuality?”

I never said that. I seem to remember skillfully evading the question by asking what gave him the idea in the first place.

I never said I was fuckin’ confused.

I never said anything of the sort. Damn Kyle, thinks he’s so damned smart.

This conversation is escalating into a fight. My blood pressure is rising. I feel my blood boiling.

I’m not ready to talk about this. Why can’t he see that?

“Kenny, I was just-“

“What, trying to get me to say I’m gay?” I demand angrily, “If you’re lookin’ for a queer why don’t you go psychoanalyze that super best friend of yours?”

My mouth’s running ahead of me, the way it always does when I’m pissed. My fingers ball into fists, and I resist the urge to take a swing at Kyle, who’s mouth has dropped open so wide he could catch flies.

“Dude, weak!” the redhead exclaims, “Leave Stan out of this!”

I remark, “Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you? You want to forget that he likes to cum screamin’ your name? Hunh, Kyle?”

I hear the drawl and slur of my words. I sound like a jackass. I sound like my dad. A redneck through and through. I guess your roots always come back to bite you in the end. After all, I always sound this way when I’m trying to pick a fight. It makes it easier. It makes it feel like it’s not really me. Unconsciously my fingers fly to my neck. I touch the cool metal of the necklace Kyle gave me.

It only makes me angrier. Why would he give me something like this? Why am I even wearing it? Because I’m such a fag? Is that why he thought I’d like jewelry better than electronics? Does something about me scream flamer?

I’m about to wrench the necklace from my neck when Kyle’s hand encases mine. It’s rough, calloused from basketball, but cool. My hands are clammy, but hot from rage.

“Don’t,” he says, and I don’t know what he means until I realize his eyes are on the necklace.

I let go.

“I think,” he takes a deep breath, “I think that you need to figure out why talking about this makes you so angry, Kenny.”

All my anger drains away. What just happened? I haven’t been that angry…God. I haven’t been that angry since the time mom got drunk and broke her arm when she slipped down the porch stairs, and everyone in town claimed it happened ‘cause dad beat her.

I’m normally such a laid back person. How did he get under my skin like that?

“I know,” I reply, my voice quiet. The shade of the stores we stand between increases as the sun disappears behind some clouds. I bet it’s going to snow. More. Fuck.

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world. If you don’t like girls, I mean.”

Kyle’s hand is still touching mine. Why is he still touching me if he was so disgusted by my fingers over his mouth? I think of the way he wiped at his lips before.

“You think?” I can’t help the sarcasm in my voice.

Kyle gives me an admonishing look, “I’m serious, Kenny. I know you’ve thought about it.”

How does he know? Up until now I didn’t even realize that I was upset about it. I didn’t realize that talking about it would make me angry. I didn’t even really consider liking guys as a definite; just a future option when girls inevitably fell through. It was this abstract idea that I acknowledged, but didn’t take seriously. And now it’s here, in my brain. Somehow I doubt it’s going to leave anytime soon.

Stupid Kyle, and his stupid insatiable curiosity. This is his fault.

“Why does it matter so damned much?” I ask, hating how helpless my voice sounds.

Kyle shrugs, letting go of my hand, “I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t.”

His answer bothers me. I don’t care. I don’t want to argue anymore. I fake a grin, “Good. Let’s drop it.”

He sighs, obviously not believing my charade for a second, “If you want.”

I do. God, he has no idea how much I want to. Suddenly hanging out with Kyle doesn’t seem as fun as it was. I’d rather be in class. I’d rather be at the Stop-N-Pump. I’d rather be home, letting my little sister attempt to braid my hair. Anywhere but here sounds good right about now.

I have to act normal. I have to act like me.

Against my instincts, I wrap my arm around his shoulders and guide him out of the alleyway, “So. How about you buy me a piece of pizza?”

“You can’t be hungry!” he exclaims, the previous subject suddenly forgotten.

“Hey. We’ve been standing next to Shakey’s for like half an hour. It smells so good,” I tell him, laughing. It’s genuine now. His reaction was so…cute. Shit.

Kyle smiles at me, saying, “Okay. Freeloader.”

“You know it,” I respond, and even though I sound light, inside I’m anything but.

I think of the necklace, the pendant dangling in the hollow of my throat.

I’m going to take it off when I get home.


	7. 'Cause It Makes No Sense To Walk In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I still can picture him, hands clutching the steering wheel, eyes focused on the path his headlights cut through the snow covered mountains saying, “I believe in you.”

I spend the walk back home thinking about Kyle.

My mind’s stuck in rewind, looping the day over and over again before my eyes. I think of Kyle sitting beneath the florescent lighting in Shakey’s, his hair the red of autumn leaves, his gaze unwavering as we discussed the kind of stupid shit that makes life interesting. You know; which teachers suck ass, which movies are going to rock, and which of our friends is the biggest dick.

We stayed away from the topic of girls, or anything to do with sex, for that matter. I think it made both of us more comfortable that way.

Kyle paid for a large cheese pie, which the two of us devoured like animals, or you know, teenage boys. Which we are. So there.

The mozzarella stretched across my lips, burning hot, and Kyle ended up with tomato sauce across his chin. The air was filled with the spicy scent that occupies most Pizzerias; oregano, crushed pepper, and deep fried bread. In the back I could hear the sizzle of meat cooking, maybe pepperoni.

Yes, I have an unhealthy preoccupation with food. It happens when you don’t ever get enough.

And now...

Even though the conversation we had in the alleyway disturbed the hell out of me, and I’m studiously NOT thinking about it, I can’t help but think about Kyle. He’s warm, and open. He calls me on my bullshit. He has no problem stating what he thinks. He’s some kind of amazing, I guess.

I should be thinking that I’m lucky to have him as a best friend.

Instead I’m remembering my first crush.

Y’know the funny thing is, I don’t even remember her name. But there’s other things I can’t forget, like her smile, and the clumsy way she was always falling over things. She was the one who told me she liked me. She was so shy. She said, “Kenny…I think you’re kind of cute.”

I thought it was a miracle. She was the cute one. She had long, shiny hair, and clear eyes. I really, really liked her eyes. I’d never seen anything so green before.

Our first and only date ended when I took her home and she told me that my house smelled like a dumpster. I was seven, and I told her that she could fuck herself.

I had kind of a dirty mouth when I was a kid.

I haven’t thought about that girl in ages.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t felt as good as I did on that first date until now. That fluttery, stomach-moving feeling is back in my stomach.

I tell myself it’s because for the first time in ages, I think Kyle’s not joking when he says he considers me a best friend.

I don’t really have best friends. I have Stan, Kyle, and Cartman, sure, but Stan and Kyle are practically Siamese twins, and Cartman isn’t capable of being anyone’s confidante. I guess I always saw myself as the loner of the group.

Knowing that I’m not so alone; that must be what accounts for this feeling in my chest.

Yeah.

I find my dad and Kevin sitting on the porch. Both are cradling brown bottles with the labels torn off that don’t quite disguise the stink of a brewery emanating from the two of them. That stuff sure as hell ain’t root beer.

“Lil’ bro!” Kevin cheers, holding his bottle up so that the setting sun highlights it red and gold. Kind of like Kyle’s hair.

“Kevin,” I acknowledge. “Don’t you have night classes?”

He leans toward me, practically falling out of the rickety plastic porch chair. In a confidential tone he says, “I’m playing hooky.”

I grin. We’re definitely related.

“Me too,” I reply.

My dad shoots me a dark look, but he doesn’t say anything. I see the red plastic cooler full of label-less beers near his feet, and I make a grab for one.

Murderous, dad slaps at my hand, but I’ve already succeeded in stealing a bottle.

He eyes me suspiciously as I use the hem of my shirt to twist the cap off and then says, “Alrigh’. But don’t you go letting yer mother see. She’ll scream like a banshee outta hell.”

I smirk, “No worries, pop.”

Then I make a grab for his hat, too. I can tell he really wants to smack me this time, but he’s too lazy to actually get up from the lawn chair.

Victorious, I twirl the red trucker hat around in my fingers. My dad’s had this thing since I was small. As I pass it over my face on the way to my head, I can smell his unique scent. Dishwater cologne, cheap cigars, and a mixture of alcohol.

Mmm, smells like home.

I take a long gulp of my beer before settling on the only seat available; the splintered railing of our porch. I can feel shards of wood sticking into my ass, but I don’t really care. The sun’s setting. My family’s here. Life’s good.

“So, Kinny,” Dad says, his accent thick. He grew up in Missouri, which he pronounces Missour-a before moving to South Park when he was four. Even though he didn’t drop out of the education system ‘til high school, the twang of his words is apparently a souvenir from his ‘old home’. At least that’s what he says when my siblings and I bug him about trying to not sound like he comes from a place where incest is an acceptable form of socialization.

“Yeah, pop?”

I call him pop because it annoys him. He claims he’s not a carbonated beverage. I just think it’s funny.

Old people are a completely viable form of entertainment sometimes; like when you’re so poor you don’t own a TV.

“Boy,” he growls, “What’d I tell you ‘bout callin’ me that?”

“You’re changing the subject,” I say sweetly, “Pop.”

Kevin just rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer. He’s used to me antagonizing dad. Who do you think I learned it from?

“Knew I shoulda washed yer mouth out with battery acid ‘stead of that soap yer mother used,” dad mutters, “Woulda taught you when to keep that mouth of yers shut.”

Yeah. And I wouldn’t have had a tongue. Good ol’ mom, looking out for my ability to speak.

Dad’s a good man. He just gets dumb ideas when he’s drunk, which is often. However, I think we can safely say that dumb ideas happen even to the best of us when we’re plastered. Hell, I can think of a few stories…

“Kinny,” dad starts again, “Kivin.”

“Yeah?” we chorus, wondering if he’s ever going to get to the point. I look through the thick brown glass of my bottle, watching the sun ripple into a muddled picture of golden light through the amber liquid inside.

“What should I get yer mother for Valentine’s day?”

“Fuck, I don’t know dad. Valentine’s day is a long time from now.” Kevin scoffs, reclining his feet up against the railing.

I feel it tremble under my butt. Shit, I hope it doesn’t collapse again. Last time that happened I ended up with a wooden spike near my heart. It took forever for me to bleed out and come back.

“S’true,” my dad agrees, running a hand through his thick, sandy hair. It’s touched with gray here and there, a constant reminder that the old man’s getting older, along with the livers spots on his hands and the crows feet ‘round his eyes.

I don’t like to think about my parents aging, dying. I don’t like to think about a lot, I guess. I should make a list.

“Yeah,” I agree. “But it pays off to be prepared. ‘Member when last V-Day you ended up getting hosed at that restaurant you were planning on taking her to ‘cause she was late dropping Karen off? And then you puked all over her the second she walked in the door?”

My dad glares at me, his watery blue eyes fierce.

“I’m just sayin’,” I grin cheekily, “Maybe you might want to pick out a better gift than vomit this year.”

He mutters something about the ‘mouth on me’. It’s our way of bonding.

“Get ‘er a gift certificate to IHOP,” Kevin puts in, flipping the beer bottle cap over his knuckles and through his fingers. I’ve always been jealous of that trick. He tried to teach me a few times, but I’m not nearly coordinated enough for it.

“IHOP,” my dad muses, “She does like them pancakes.”

I laugh. Only my dad and my big brother would think that a gift certificate to IHOP is a romantic present.

“So Kenny, why ain’t I seen you with a girl yet this year?” Kevin asks suddenly. I glance up at my dad, but he’s mumbling to himself. Probably over whether mom’d like a gift certificate for IHOP or Benny’s better.

“Ain’t found one I like,” I reply, eyeing him suspiciously, “You haven’t got one neither.”

“I do, actually,” Kevin straightens, “Met this fine piece of ass up at the CC. She fucks like a bunny.”

Wow, big bro. TMI.

“Your exploits are ever fascinating,” I murmur in a low voice.

Dad doesn’t like it when we talk about sex in front of him. I think his secret fear is that we’ll get some chick knocked up and end up having a shotgun wedding.

I don’t know why the thought terrifies him so much. That’s not how mom and he ended up hitched, although I think I’ve got a few uncles who did look down the barrels of a few guns.

Then again, they were in Vietnam.

“They are,” Kevin agrees with a self-satisfied smirk. My brother’s got a bit of an ego problem.

I think it’s genetic, actually.

At first I think I’ve distracted him, since he seems caught up in a day dream about his grade A tits-n-ass girl, but instead he turns to me and says, “So what’s yer excuse?”

“Like I said,” I grit my teeth, “The girls in my year are dogs.”

“That’s a lie,” Kevin barks with laughter, earning us a quick, chastening look from dad, “I’ve been to your school, Kenny. That place is filled with babes.”

“Jailbait babes,” I correct.

Kevin shrugs, “Don’t matter if you ain’t caught. Fact, it don’t matter for you at all. Get with one of ‘em.”

Not on his life. I hate the girls at my school. Example: see Heidi Turner. I don’t care if Kyle thinks she’s not the norm. The rest of the girls are dying to be from the same mold as her, or even worse, Wendy the skank. I don’t want a girl whose goal in life is to be a domineering, cheating bitch.

Dude, I don’t even know if I want a girl.

Maybe Kevin knows, ‘cause he says, “If you don’t, dad and I are gonna start thinkin’ yer one of those queers.”

“I’m not gay, Kev,” I mumble under my breath, hoping against hope that dad isn’t listening in.

“I know that,” Kevin observes, “But you sure do act like it sometimes. Maybe you should stop hangin’ out so much with your faggy friends and start concentratin’ on real life.”

I let him insult my friends. I don’t even comment on how my brother’s interpretation of real life is getting laid. He’s dumb, but he’s blood. Instead I just say nothing, chugging the rest of my beer down in one gulp and keeping my eyes on the sunset. It’s the only way I can keep from thinking.

* * *

 

I lie in bed later that night wondering why everyone thinks it’s the opportune time to interfere in my life.

Kyle and Kevin both want to know if I’m gay. Why does everyone keep asking? Did Cartman put an ad out in the paper or something, with a nice byline that reads ‘Kenny McCormick’s a flaming faggot’? Seriously, there has got to be a reason that people feel its okay to pry into my life out of the blue like this.

You know this is probably only the third or fourth time ever that I’ve spent an entire day alone with Kyle.

I remember the first time. It was last year. Kyle had just gotten his driver’s license, and he made plans for Cartman, Stan, and I to go to a concert to celebrate. At the last minute, Stan got busted by his parents drinking and necking with Wendy. Cartman ended up getting a better deal, by which I mean his mother decided that she’d take him to one of those fancy themed restaurants with a ‘client’ that night.

Fatass never could turn down food.

So Kyle and I got into his car and made the drive to Denver. For the first half, it was a long, quiet ride, riddled with occasional perverted comments (from me) and a few intellectual remarks (from him). It was like we didn’t really know how to get along together without Stan and Cartman watching our every mood.

At first I thought that maybe Kyle just didn’t know how to operate correctly without his bestest butt buddy around, but I knew I’d seen him surviving all on his lonesome on occasion at school, so I tried my hardest to make conversation. Eventually the topic of school came up.

That’s when Kyle began lecturing me about making an effort. He hasn’t stopped since. But that time, on the drive to Denver, it was the first time that anyone had ever really taken an interest in my education.

Sure, my teachers would tell me I needed to work harder, or pay attention better. And mom would yell when I failed classes, getting perilously close to repeating a year or two. Still, none of them ever asked me how I felt about it. They just talked at me and expected me to understand what I was doing wrong. Kyle’s the first person who ever got through to me, on the way to the concert.

Normally I would’ve gotten mad. But with only him, nobody else around, it seemed okay to talk about. By the time we got to the concert, he had the rest of my high school career planned out, up to which colleges I had to apply to. When I expressed doubt, he told me, “I believe in you Kenny.”

I still can picture him, hands clutching the steering wheel, eyes focused on the path his headlights cut through the snow covered mountains saying, “I believe in you.”

The concert kicked ass. Well, I think it did anyway. We got kicked out in the first ten minutes for being underage. Kyle hadn’t realized that he’d taken us to a twenty one and over club.

Still, the night wasn’t a complete bust. We convinced some college kid to buy us a bottle of Jack Daniels, and we drove out along the highway until we found some wooded exit right outside South Park. We pulled off there, and then we found a dirt path leading halfway up a mountain. We followed it as far as we could go, and then, with the snow capped peak towering over us, we pulled over.

See, we weren’t willing to go back early and admit that Kyle had made a mistake. So for the hour or two that the concert had been scheduled to go on, we told stories, talked about the future, and played never have I ever when we got really bored.

“Never have I ever fallen in love,” Kyle groaned, sprawled out on the hood of his car.

I glanced down at him from my spot on the roof, “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Kyle replied with a smirk. He looked at me expectantly.

I just shrugged, “Me neither.”

“Man, then neither of us can drink!”

I chuckled, “How about both of us drink instead?”

“Sounds perfect.”

By the time we were done, the bottle of Jack was half gone. Drunk and dizzy, we climbed back into the car. Kyle twisted the key in the ignition.

“Kenny,” Kyle said calmly, twisting the key. Then he twisted it back and jiggled it forward once more, “Shit.”

“What?”

He announced, “The engine’s dead.”

“What?” I blinked, “How can it be dead?”

Kyle frowned at the car; an old junker borrowed from his dad, “I don’t know. I mean the thing’s ancient, but it should work.”

After several failed attempts we realized the truth. We were stranded.

We were also half drunk, so we didn’t let it affect us. Kyle called up a tow truck company that said they wouldn’t be able to make it for a few hours. He shrugged and suggested we sleep in the backseats.

He dug an old boom box out of the trunk, which his dad kept especially for tailgate parties. He pressed a button and the radio sprung to life. Some country singer crooned about her broken heart. That was the only channel it’d pick up.

For a while we left the radio running, remaining sprawled on top of the car and staring at the stars. They were dazzlingly bright, more so even than in our quiet mountain town. We took turns taking shots of JD until another quarter of the bottle was gone, and then the last. When we’d drank so much sickly sweet whiskey that our stomachs were turning, we clambered from our positions, numb from the cold but heated from the drink.

Kyle’s family was perpetually prepared. He had two flannel blankets stashed away in the trunk, along with the boom box, a medical kit and a flashlight. We wrapped ourselves in the flannel and huddled together in the backseat, our heads spinning.

When I woke up the next morning, Kyle had his arm wrapped around me. I was pressed up against the warmth of his chest, and the blankets were wrapped around the both of us.

The tow truck was waiting expectantly outside.

After I woke Kyle, the driver gave us a cheesy smile and said something about ‘liberals’ and ‘homosexuals’. We ignored him, desperate to get home.

That was the first night and day I ever spent wholly with Kyle Broflovski.

I lay back against my pillows. I remember every one since then.

Today’s going to stand out in my memory for a long time.

Bunching my fingers into my threadbare sheets, I remember his words, _“I think that you need to figure out why talking about this makes you so angry, Kenny.”_

Maybe I do. But not tonight.


	8. You Can Fight The Fire That’s In Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucky me, my voice stays calm, “Hey guys. Um. Don’t want to interrupt the Super Best Bitch Fight, but Kyle, Heidi wants us to come play plantation owner with her.”
> 
> “Dude,” Kyle glances at me sharply, “Not now.”
> 
> “Um. Yes now. No way is Heidi whipping me all on my lonesome, Broflovski.”

“Missed you in class yesterday,” Stan tells me, and then he says pointedly, “Kyle too.”

He doesn’t have me fooled. He’s only concerned about precious Kyle.

“I didn’t break him,” I tell Stan, “Don’t worry.”

“You better not have,” he growls good-naturedly, but I can tell that my comment bothers him more than he’s letting on. He wants to know why Kyle skipped school with me, but not him. He wants to know why his invite got lost in the mail.

Silly me, I didn’t think to ask.

I zone out for the endless hours of class, waiting impatiently until lunch finally approaches.

Then I march right up to Kyle, who is predictably glued to his super best idiot.

“You suck,” I inform him. His mouth gapes open, exposing half chewed pizza to the world.

Neglecting how gross it is, he mumbles out in this adorable confused voice, “Why?”

“Because,” I reply simply, even though that’s probably not an answer. No way am I telling him that he fucked with my head yesterday, and that I’m pissed about it. Instead I lie through my teeth, “Because I didn’t have my history homework this morning, and you were late so I couldn’t fucking copy.”

Kyle blinks, his expression changing into one of amusement, even with food hanging out of his mouth, “You know, the point of homework is to do it on your own. By yourself? At home?”

“Yeah right, Jew-boy. Homework’s the only reason we keep you around,” Cartman announces, shoving me to the side and plopping down right in between Stan and Kyle. The table sags with his immense weight.

Both of my friends manage to look only mildly irked by his intrusion. Stan more so, of course.

I’m starting to suspect something’s going on with him, but I’ve got my own problems.

“And remind me why exactly we keep you around?” Kyle snaps back, “I mean, aside from charting your weight in the Guinness Book of World Records?”

“Aye, watch your mouth, fag!”

Kyle growls, “Why should I, bitch?”

I just watch, rolling my eyes. Kyle’s got a height advantage, but there’s no denying Cartman’s got the weight to beat people in a fight. No one even tries anymore, except Kyle. Kyle always wins, but most people, including me, put it down to his prior knowledge of all of Cartman’s weak spots.

Plus the kid’s got a tendency to run his mouth like a fucking motor boat, which only distracts people with a lower IQ than everyone’s favorite Jew.

“I will break your legs and dump you in the bottom of a river.”

“Try it,” Kyle counters.

I sigh, “I think you tried that already, fatass. What’s the matter? Lacking creativity today?”

Haha, creativity. Like Cartman has any. His presets are yell and threaten to maim.

And then if you really push him, chop you up into a chili bowl.

“Shut it Po’Boy.”

I grab a roll of his tray and stuff it in my mouth. After I swallow a bite, I manage, “Satisfied?”

“Get your own food. Oh wait, you can’t. Your family would starve if you shelled out a dollar.”

“Cartman, I swear to god.”

“Kenny,” Kyle’s glaring at me, probably wondering why I got in the middle of his favorite pastime; reaming out the lardass.

“God doesn’t listen in on the ghetto. He’ll never know you’re swearing.”

“Good. He obviously doesn’t care about obese whales like you, either, so when I cut you it won’t actually be a crime.”

I just so happen to have a pocket knife in my jeans. I’ve never used to it to defend myself, but there’s a first time for everything.

“Kenny,” Kyle inserts again. He’s reaching across the table, trying to grab hold of my arm. I dodge him, not wanting him to touch me.

“Micks like you should have been drowned instead of being let off the boat,” Cartman sneers, his hateful brown eyes narrowing, “Oh wait. Maybe that’s why God keeps smacking you down, Po’Boy.”

Cartman’s comment on the death issue sends me reeling. I _hate_ the death issue. Dying sucks. It’s better to forget about it and move on.

I can’t believe he went that low. Even my family doesn’t talk about it.

“Jesus H. Christ, tubby. Doesn’t making fun of poor people ever get old?”

Everyone stares in shock at Stan. Stan Marsh, who never says a bad word about anyone. He never interferes in an argument, even a pointless one against Cartman. He believes in letting people fight it out themselves, and he’s school’s most likely candidate to _hug it out_. I mean, he has more squishy gross feelings than a girl.

I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open unattractively as I gape at him, but since Kyle and Cartman are both mirroring my expression, I don’t feel too bad about it.

Cartman naturally recovers first. He has to regain his dignity, after all. I think the entire cafeteria just saw him get bitched out by pansy ass Stan. It kind of makes me feel like cheering.

 “What the fuck, hippie? Who asked you? And no, fuck, who gets tired of making fun of anyone?”

Kyle’s attention is well and truly away from me now, “Stan? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, shoving his tray away and gathering up his book bag, “I gotta go to the library.”

We watch his retreating back as he practically runs out of the cafeteria.

He has a nice ass. All toned from sports.

I’m distracted from watching him when Kyle gets up and follows.

It bothers me, and I can’t figure out why.

“Stan, wait up!”

Stan just walks faster.

Cartman snorts, “I wish Hezbollah would kill all the Jews and get it over with.”

Okay. That got my attention, “That is the most politically incorrect thing you’ve said all day. And I’m pretty sure that’s not Hezbollah’s aim.”

Not that he would know. It would require paying attention in class.

“Fucking should be,” he replies, taking a zestful bite of his sandwich.

Some days I can’t believe I’m friends with Eric Cartman. Seriously.

* * *

 

The rest of the day can’t pass fast enough. Most of my teachers are assholes. They’re constantly on about us talking too loud, or not enough, or not being smart, or being smartasses. I mean, they have comment after fucking comment about how immature we are, and how we need to learn to be better.

Are we allowed to be ourselves without having to worry about growing up? Growing apart? Can’t we just be kids a little longer?

Probably not. I think they’re scared if they let us stay young, we might stay that way forever. But would that really be a bad thing?

True to form, Cartman writes an essay in my English class about how kike fags need to be eliminated from the earth, drum circling hippies should be disemboweled and burned, and white trash should be shot at birth. He then narrates it with Shakespearan aplomb.

I listen with mild interest. The funny thing about him, much as I despise him, is that he loves us. If he stopped calling the lot of us discriminatory names, I’d be really fucking worried.

He degrade people if he really hates them. He finds a way to get them killed, or somehow exterminated.

I mean, this kid tried to commit genocide in seventh grade. He’s terrifying. So yeah, the day he stops calling me white trash, or a mick, or child of drunkards, I’ll be scared for my life.

Miss Whoever-She-Is, my English teacher, gets predictably mad. Her face turns red as the fake apple she keeps on her desk. I think she might have popped a blood vessel. She sends Cartman to the principal, but I know it won’t help. He and the principal are pretty tight. Possibly because he spends a good amount of time in her office every day.

I think he fed her some spiel about how he’s misunderstood, and basically he’s like her golden child.

When the bell rings, I’m half asleep. I was having some dream; I don’t remember the details, but there were definitely boobs involved. Double D’s, my favorite.

Too bad they always belong to cunts in real life.

I round the corner towards my locker, and that’s when I see Stan and Kyle.

Now, normally I’d go up to them, ask them what’s good, and then putz around with them until we had no choice but to get our asses to the bus.

This time I don’t. Mostly because they’re in the midst of an argument so loud that I’m surprised I didn’t hear it in my classroom.

“Stan, please. Tell me what the hell your problem is and we’ll work it out.”

“I don’t have a problem!”

“Is it Wendy? Because she’s a skank. Fuck her.”

“It’s not Wendy.”

“Would you stop being such a pussy and just tell me already?”

“I’m not being a- goddamnit Kyle!”

Kyle glares at him, and Mr. Super Best Friend glares right back. Hot damn, I’ve never seen them so angry with each other. I mean, okay, Kyle kind of has a right to be angry because they still haven’t resolved the whole drunken masturbation issue to my knowledge. That’s got to be an uncomfortable conversation to have, so I don’t really blame them.

But what’s crawled up Stan’s ass; I don’t know. It’s plausible that the masturbation thing got on his bad side too, but this seems like a whole lot more than misguided embarrassment.

What comes out of Stan’s mouth is hella embarrassing too, and I doubt it’s solely him who’s blushing once he blurts it out. He turns on his heel with a look so black he might as well be a faggy goth again and yells, “Why didn’t you tell me you and Kenny were going to ditch yesterday?”

Kyle’s flabbergasted.

I’m stumbling back because I now officially want nothing to do with this.

“That’s what this is about?” Kyle demands in a low voice.

“What? I can’t be fucking concerned that you seem to be getting a new best friend?”

Oh yeah. Backpedaling fast.

Too fast. I bump into someone, softness rubbing up against my chest deliberately. I know that feeling.

When I spin to face my assaulter, I see pink sugar frosted lips and legs that won’t stop. Her breasts are spilling out of a champagne colored top that leaves little to the imagination.

“Heidi? Don’t scare me like that!”

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s walking without looking,” she shrugs, making the motion as slow and sinuous as possible. Whore.

“Where were you running off to, McCormick?”

“Work. You know, where people go to make money when they don’t prostitute themselves?” I ask pointedly, still full of resentment for the bitch.

“I don’t think so,” she purses her lips, “Forgot our agreement? You’re my slave today.”

“Tempting as that doesn’t sound, what?”

“Skipping class? Working on the dance committee? Ring a bell?”

Shit. I forgot we agreed to that.

“Heidi, I’ve got a job.”

“As if I care. Tell them you’re going to be late. It’s only an hour every day for the next two weeks.”

“Every day? Even weekends?”

“Yep,” she replies brightly, “So how ‘bout you go fetch your boyfriend over there and get your skinny ass to the gym, mm’kay?”

She gestures towards Kyle, who’s still fighting with Stan over…well, me, I guess.

Awkward.

I’m so not looking forward to breaking that up.

“Giddy up,” Heidi pushes me forward, “Or are you scared to break up the gayfest?”

I glare at her, but apparently looks really can’t kill. And no way am I telling her I’m not scared, I'm terrified.

Maybe just to find out what Kyle’s telling Stan about me.

In the end, I don’t find out anything. I walk up to them shaking in my sneakers. They’re whispering now, rapidly, like they have their own secret language.

Must have caught on to the fact that high school is full of eavesdropping gossips.

Lucky me, my voice stays calm, “Hey guys. Um. Don’t want to interrupt the Super Best Bitch Fight, but Kyle, Heidi wants us to come play plantation owner with her.”

“Dude,” Kyle glances at me sharply, “Not now.”

“Um. Yes now. No way is Heidi whipping me all on my lonesome, Broflovski.”

Stan’s glaring at me, and I’m pretty much putty under his dark, deep blue eyes. I wish my eyes were like that. They never look all stormy and charming. Just blue.

I wonder if Kyle likes that whole I-can-strike-you-down-with-lightning-just-using-the-power-of-my-gaze thing.

“Kyle,” Stan warns, but I think whatever power his anger held over the redhead has broken.

Kyle just shakes his head and says, “I really can’t do this now, Stan. We’ll talk later.”

Even more awkward. Why am I in the middle of this? Stan’s still glaring daggers at me, and much like Stan never intervenes in fights, he never glares at someone for longer than a minute, either. At least, not if your name isn’t Kyle Broflovski or Eric Cartman. I’m getting increasingly uncomfortable. Plus I’m missing work for this shit.

My boss is going to shoot me in the head, and that’s if he’s having a slow day.

“Come on, Kenny,” Kyle tugs on my arm, and I try to ignore Stan as we walk back down the hallway towards Heidi.

“That looked rough,” I tell him in a quiet voice.

“You have no idea. Thanks for saving me.”

I might have saved him, but I feel like I just earned myself a death sentence.


	9. Now You Can't Wash Your Hands Of Me

Being Heidi’s slave might be the dream of half the male population out our school, but it ain’t no picnic. She has us measure the entire fucking gym, because she believes the principal’s too much of a halfwit for the blueprints he lent her to be correct.

God forbid she doesn’t know how much fucking crepe paper to buy.

Decorations are her role for the dance committee, which Wendy Testaburger is heading off. I like Wendy. She’s dated Stan on and off for just about all of eternity. She doesn’t take bullshit, and she hits like a guy. What else can you want in a girl? Plus she’s got legs that just don’t stop.

Yeah, Wendy’s cool.

I just don’t appreciate her minion ordering me about like Napoleon Bonaparte Junior. There’s something seriously wrong with the girls in South Park. Aside from all being stupid spoiled whores, I think they were all given war strategy play sets instead of Barbie dolls. They know how to twist boys around their pinkie finger and hang them out to dry right after, which doesn’t seem like the natural order of things for teenagers of the feminine variety. I mean I’ve seen all those teen movies, and aren’t the girls supposed to be the ones fawning over us?

Not forcing two highly attractive men folk like Kyle and myself to break our backs for the sake of a school dance.

“Well shit,” I glance at the cracked screen of my cell phone, “It’s been over an hour. I’ve gotta get to work or my boss is going to kill me.”

“Yeah,” Heidi yawns from where she’s reclining on the bleachers with the newest issue of Cosmo, “Getting fired from the Stop-N-Pump would be tragic.”

“Woman,” I frown, “Some of us have to make money.”

She hardly spares a glance at me, “I offered you alternatives.”

I see Kyle look at me out of the corner of his eye, piercing emerald. He wants to know what he means, but fuck if I’m going to tell him.

“I’m out,” I say, and that’s when Heidi finally decides to hop to her feet and assume her role as dictator of the gym.

“You can’t leave,” she informs me, flashing a piece of paper in my face, “You have to go pick up the things on this list.”

“Heidi,” I reply calmly, “I said I’d stay an hour. It’s been longer. I have got. To go. To work.”

She crosses her arms, and I glare right on back at her.

No blackmail is worth this. Didn’t I say chicks are too much trouble? This is a prime example, right here. She thinks I’m going to give in, but mama didn’t raise no fool.

Well, that’s a lie. She raised two, but they’re both my siblings.

“Fine,” she gives in, “Kyle can take care of the list.”

Kyle’s head snaps up from where he’s been doing calculations on a notepad about how many tables and chairs we can pack in here without creating a fire hazard. He looks scandalized, “You want me to do all this by myself?”

“Well, no,” I bite my lip, “But I have to get to work, dude.”

Those emerald eyes of his are hypnotizing. I feel like a queer, standing there, staring at them. Unable to break away, unable to even move.

Then I shake myself free. What am I, in Bizarroland or something? Kyle’s a dude, and dudes don’t stare at other dudes’ eyes.

I can feel Heidi watching me with interest. Great. Just what she needs. More ammo.

I wish Kyle’d never even given me that think-about-your-sexuality lecture. I’m getting crucified here, in my thoughts, all because Kyle Broflovski decided he needed me to be true to myself. Why is he so desperate to see me come out of the closet anyway?

I know why. Curiosity. Kyle’s got more of it than any one human has a right to.

So I do what I’m best at. I ignore it, and I ignore his freaky eyes. My fingers scrape over my collarbone, searching for the necklace he gave me, the one I took off two nights ago.

I’m such a pussy.  It’s not like I need jewelry to be strong.

I wave goodbye, and walk out the back of the gym. Heidi doesn’t even acknowledge my leaving. Kyle on the other hand, runs after me.

“Kenny, dude! Wait up. I wanted to talk to you!”

I turn on my heel, my sneaker grinding into the concrete and gravel beneath the layers of snow, “What’s up?”

Wet is creeping up through my pant leg. The snow is deeper than I thought.

“Look, yesterday, when we talked about…you know…you thinking about why you’re confused…I wanted to know if you thought about it?”

“This again?” I growl. I’m staring up at him through blond fringe. I need a haircut, and badly, but things have been kind of distracting lately. “I thought we established that it doesn’t fucking matter!”

“Yeah,” he crosses his arms, “It doesn’t. To you.”

I sag against the side of the gym, trying to keep my voice low. God forbid Heidi came out and heard us. I might die of embarrassment and never return, “So it matters to you?”

He blinks, his cheeks abruptly reddening.

What? I’m so confused. Why the hell is he blushing? Did I say something wrong? I don’t think so…

“Kyle?”

Kyle shuffles from one foot to another, “Um. Maybe we should talk about something else.”

I glare at him, “No fucking way. Speak, dude.”

He stares at me, vulnerable now, “About what?”

“Why does whether or not I’m gay affect you?”

“Because…um, you’re my friend, and I care about you?”

“That’s not supposed to be a question,” I tell him slowly.

Kyle backs into the wall behind him, “Um. Yeah.”

I take a step forward, quietly mocking his earlier words to me, “Um, yeah isn’t an answer.”

“Kenny,” he moans slightly, “I-can we not do this now?”

“No, I think we have to do this now,” I take another step forward, balling my fingers into fists to keep from reaching out to him.

“Look, I just…” Kyle takes a deep breath, and then his expression turns fierce. He always was a fighter, “So the thing is that I kind of maybe possibly…shit. I think _I_ might be into guys, and I guess I thought if you were confused too, it might be nice to have someone to go through it with together.”

I’m surprised at how calm his voice is at the end of that sentence. Hell, if I’d been the one saying it I probably would have blended the words together until it sounded like mumbled nonsense.

He covers his eyes, and then peeks out through his fingers, “Dude. Say something. Do you hate me?”

“What? Why would I hate you?”

“You kind of flipped a shit when I accused you of being gay. You’re either closeted or a total homophobe,” he says clearly. I ignore his jibe at me being ‘closeted’ and shake my head.

“Kyle, even if you’re gay, I could never hate you.”

“Good,” he drops his hands to his side, “And I didn’t say I’m definitely gay. I said I think I’m gay.”

“See, it gets kind of awkward to talk about, doesn’t it?” I ask pointedly, grinning at him. Inside my mind is reeling. He thinks he’s gay. I wonder why he thinks that. Does he have a crush on somebody male? Oh god. Is it Stan? Did seeing Stan masturbate to him turn him? Can you turn somebody gay?

I think of them arguing in the hallway earlier today, and the way Stan looked when he asked about us skipping school together. Yeah. I could see that. Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski, super best couple.

They’d be cute, I guess.

Kyle’s staring at me, like I have all the answers to his problems. I guess he thinks I do. He wants me to be gay so he doesn’t have to go it alone, and that makes sense. It must be kind of terrifying for him. He’s smart, and reasonably popular, and has this perfect life. Liking guys would pretty much throw a wrench into all his plans.

It would still end up perfect though. Stan’s so obviously suppressing feelings for him. I doubt his mom would be too upset over his orientation, at that; she is Mrs. Activist Extraordinaire Broflovski.

I try to think of what to tell him. Life would be so much easier if they made guidebooks that answered questions like these.

Kyle beats me to the punch.

“Yeah. Sorry for pressuring you earlier,” he leans back against the wall, more casual now that I’m not pushing him for anything.

“Um. It’s okay,” I’m still searching for the words to comfort him, to enable him into being back in control of his life. That’s what good friends do, right?

“Kenny?”

“Yeah?”

Now he’s looking at me with those impossibly green eyes, “Have you ever liked anybody? That way, I mean?”

“Like a guy?”

He frowns, “No. Anybody. Guy, girl…whoever.”

“I’ve had a few crushes,” I say, thinking of girls with mermaid hair and cat eyes. I think of girls with bodies shaped like starlets, and girls who shyly told me they thought I was cute. I can’t remember if I ever really liked any of them, or if I just liked the attention they gave me. It’s the eternal dilemma for a guy like me.

“I don’t mean like that,” he says dismissively, “I mean…like…have you ever met someone who made you feel…right?”

“Right?” I echo.

“Yeah. Like…like rotting here in South Park would be okay?”

I think about it. That would be amazing. I wonder where I could meet a person who would make me willing to stay in this hick town.

“No. I’ve never met anyone like that,” I conclude, “Which you know already. Remember Never Have I Ever?”

Kyle’s face falls slightly, “Oh. I thought maybe you’d…changed your mind.”

I work up my resolve and say, “Kyle?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you like Stan?”

“What do you mean?” his head snaps up, his cheeks reddening again.

“I think you know.”

“Um. No.”

“No, you don’t like him?”

“No, I have no idea what you’re insinuating,” he snaps, embarrassed.

“Does Stan make you feel like it would be okay to live here forever?”

“I-“ his voice cuts off, “I don’t think so. I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“That’s kind of weird.”

“Why?” Kyle asks, peering at me through those red eyelashes. He really is kind of gorgeous. I gulp.

I rake a hand through my hair, nervous for reasons I can’t identify, “Just that you saw him wankin’ it to you, and you’re questioning your sexuality, but you didn’t even connect the two?”

“It never came up.”

“Like I said; weird.”

“Kenny,” he says, a warning in his tone.

I don’t care. All the questions brimming at the back of my mind are starting to pour out of my mouth like word vomit. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had anyone to talk to about this kind of thing before. Maybe because Kyle feels safe.

“Would you fuck Stan?”

“Kenny!” he shouts in protest, eyes wide.

I grin, “You’ve at least thought of that, right?”

“I haven’t!” he exclaims, but his face is burning. He’s lying to me.

“Oh,” I say, like I accept his answer, and then ask, “Would you fuck me?”

His mouth gapes open. I laugh.

Kyle reaches out a hand, to swipe at me, I think, yelping, “You fag. You want me to fuck you?”

I think him fucking me is the last thing on my mind. Fucking me up, maybe.

“As if, Broflovski,” I taunt him, “I’m the best lay in town, haven’t you heard?”

“Gross, Kenny,” Kyle stops trying to take a swing at me and asks, “Have you even been laid?”

Well, now there’s a question I don’t like to think about. I think I scare him with my sudden intensity. I’m staring into his eyes, wondering if I should answer for real, or give him the kiss off like I do to everyone else.

I decide, in a rare moment of stupidity, to tell the truth, “Once or twice.”

“Girls, right?”

“Of course, girls,” I snort, “I don’t even really know how exactly you go about that type of thing with a dude. Seems complicated.”

Kyle gives me an odd smile, green eyes shining, “Not as much as you’d imagine.”

“How’d you know?”

“Googled it,” he grins.

I laugh, “You are such a fag.”

“I think we both are,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder, “I have to get back inside. Heidi’s is waiting for me to run her errands like a little bitch.”

Oh. I forgot about that.

Maybe he’s right. I haven’t thought this through. Kyle’s pressing me for answers for things that I don’t even want to know myself, and while I understand why now, it’s still strange. Does he really need company on the magical gaystravaganza he might or might not take part in?

“Kyle?” I say, my voice slightly strangled. I’m not used to hearing my voice like that, husky and hitched. I don’t know why it sounds that way, although subconsciously I must know. I have to. I can’t think of any other explanation for what came next.

I reach forward, taking hold of the collar of his jacket. He stumbles slightly, falling into me, so that I have to balance him with my arms. I see him looking up at me, not afraid, questioning.

He trusts me.

So what do I do?

I press my lips to his.

It’s over in seconds, and I stumble back, one thought in my mind. I just kissed Kyle Broflovski.

He’s staring at me with wide eyes. His fingers fly to his lips, a horrified expression on his face, “Dude, what the hell was that?”

“Uh…I don’t know,” I say, not sounding nearly as cool as I usually like to after I kiss someone, “I…uh…consider it an experiment.”

“That was one fucked up experiment,” Kyle mutters. His touches his lips again. Now he’s really trying to get rid of the taste of me.

“I-“ I stutter, “I’ve got to go to work. Um. Bye.”

“Kenny!” he shouts after me, but I’m already running as fast as my legs will carry me. There’s only one thought in my head.

I fucked up, badly.


	10. This Is Gonna Bring Me To My Knees

If they gave out awards for the world’s biggest coward, I’m pretty sure I’d take the title.

Sure, I’m being dramatic; I doubt I’m the first boy who ever ran away after a kiss. I don’t exactly know how many boys kissed-and-ran from other boys, but hey, again, I doubt I’m the first intrepid explorer in the field.

I’m sitting in my living room, which smells vaguely of pinewood construction dust and stale beer. It’s better than the old eau de dog shit, at any rate.

My mom started watching Martha Stewart on the tiny TV at her job a while back, and ever since she’s been on a cleanliness kick. We can’t afford much, mind you, but she springs for a bottle of Febreeze here and there. Plus she’s been trying to entice my dad into some DIY projects, which accounts for the pinewood; it’s all scrap he filched from other people’s dumpsters.

Anyway, I’m watching TV with Kevin. He spends entirely too much time at home, and I hope when I go to college I don’t decide that bonding with the ‘rents is a fun and interesting way to pass the day.

The TV’s black and white. We bought it for ten cents at a garage sale back when I was young and it still hadn’t achieved antique status. I’ve been researching how much we could hock it for on Ebay.

Sadly, it’s not enough to get a Plasma.

I could probably afford to buy one with what I’ve saved up, but I’m not risking my college fund just so I can watch Oprah. Maybe if we had HBO or Showtime, I’d get to thinkin’ ‘bout it. At least those shows have nudity.

Anyway, Kevin’s eyes are trained on the ol’ boob tube, but I’m lost in my own little world.

I kissed Kyle. I don’t know why I did that.

I mean, I guess I do. Even I didn’t buy my girls-suck-ass excuse after the first year or so. Maybe that’s why Kyle’s pressuring me to figure out my sexuality burned me down to the core.

 _Good job, Broflovski_ , I congratulate him in my head. Now he’s forced me to figure out how I feel.

And I feel…something. I’m not sure what it is, is all.

Do I like guys? Really?

How could I have missed it for so long? Girls fail at life, okay, but I still find them attractive. They’re just…annoying.

And, I suppose I could have tried a little harder to get laid; just because girls don’t take too well to my home doesn’t mean we couldn’t go to theirs. It’s not an ideal situation, but I could have made it work. There are cars and parks and really, an infinite amount of places to bone someone if you’ve got the willpower and that someone is slutty enough.

Problem is, I never thought about that alternative. I never thought about any alternative other than givin’ up on chicks.

It’s not like I was eyeing guys in the showers after gym class or anything.

I feel Kevin’s body shift a moment before the throbbing pain in the back of my head appears. Turning to him while clutching my head, I ask in an incredulous voice, “What was that for, asshole?”

“You was bein’ stupid,” he shrugs, “Now you’re not. Problem solved.”

“How was I bein’ stupid?” I demand.

“You was thinkin’,” Kevin replies, like anyone who thinks anything, ever, who should be shot.

“Maybe you should try it sometime,” I retort gruffly. Kevin just crosses his arms and returns to staring at his show.

Whatever. He might be right. I’m thinking too much about it.

Obviously, I don’t like guys. This thing with Kyle was a one off.

Now I just have to figure out a way to apologize for it and forget it ever happened.

I just don’t know if there’s any way to do that without sounding like an asshole.

* * *

 

People grow up. They grow out of phases we all thought would last forever, and they grow into them too.

The goth kids aren’t goth anymore; well, most of them. The cheerleaders aren’t all still cheerleaders. Tweek Tweak can hold a conversation without twitching. Butters Stotch grew some balls. Patty Nelson got kind of fat. And Kyle isn’t that awkward little kid anymore.

On the other hand, some people never grow out of phases. Like how Cartman’s still an asshole, and I’m still the poorest kid in town. Those aren’t even phases, I guess. They’re more like stigmas, character flaws we’re stuck with for the rest of our life. Okay, so maybe I could eventually maybe not be poor. But I doubt Cartman’s never going to not be a total d-bag, so there.

Point I’m trying to make is that I spend most of the night trying to predict Kyle’s reaction the next morning.

I don’t have much to go on. It’s not like he tried to call me.

He couldn’t even if he tried; the last cell phone I tried to pay for ended up accidentally falling in dad’s bathtub distillery, the only DIY project that he’s actually enthusiastic about. And we haven’t had a house phone since that time mom tried to through it at Kevin’s head. So yeah, unless he wanted to walk on the bad side of the tracks, Kyle didn’t have many options there. Still, assuming he had wanted to find me, he would have discovered a way. He’s a smart kid.

Since he didn’t attempt a foray into the ghetto, I’m assuming he doesn’t much want to see me. That, or he’s trying to give me time.

Both are very Kyle-like reactions. He doesn’t take well to change. Having been his friend for over seventeen years, I know this well.

He also tries really hard to be considerate, even though he’s got a selfish personality. It’s fun to watch, usually; his inner good, polite Jew trying to overcome his inner Crusader. What I mean by that is that Kyle likes morals. He likes letting everyone have their own beliefs.

If anything challenges those beliefs, he’ll stomp right over the person in question and everything they stand for in an attempt to defend ‘em to the death. It doesn’t matter how many casualties there are.

He’s a lot like his mom that way.

He might kill me if I ever said that out loud, too.

Anyway, being nice or being freaked out would be Kyle’s reactions for sure…if we were still nine years old. It occurs to me over the course of the longest night ever that I don’t actually know that much about the seventeen year old version of my friend.

I mean, I know the basics; his favorite color, the music he likes to listen to in the car, and the fact that he wants to be an architect. But even though he’s a close friend, I’m not his super best butt buddy like Stan. He doesn’t tell me everything. I can’t guess his next move. I can only make assumptions based off what I know, and most of what I know seems to be established form a long, long time ago. He hasn’t really told me anything new about himself in years, it feels like.

I hate to admit it, but most of our conversations have been about me. My dreams, my desires, and my complaints. He’s helped me study for school, and kept me company at work, and convinced me to go to college, but I haven’t really returned the favor. The only thing I’ve done to date is listen to him go on about Stan’s masturbation adventure.

In an ideal world, I could go talk to Stan about this. He’s a cool guy, he’d understand. Except…when the subject matter is Kyle, I’m not entirely sure that’s true.

Stan tends to lose his head when it comes to a certain redhead, if the aforementioned masturbation disaster is any indication. I don’t know if that was a one off or if there really is something brewing in his thick skull, but I’m sure as hell not going to ask.

That’s when it hits me for certain that there’s the slightest possibility Stan’s drunken rub and tug might spring from a deeper emotion. God, imagine if Stan was competition.

Wait, I didn’t mean that. There wouldn’t be a competition even if Stan was interested for real in Kyle, which he’s not, because that’s gay, but either way, I’m not even in the running. He can have Kyle, for all I care. The two of them can ass fuck all night if Kyle decides to switch teams.

Thinking is driving me insane. Life was so much easier back when I just didn’t give a damn.

Like, I don’t know, a week ago.

Outside my grubby window, birds start chirping. I want to take a bazooka and shoot them all out of their trees, but that won’t work. We don’t have any bloody trees outside my house. They’re living in the rafters and driving me mad.

I need to get this whole thing sorted. But there’s nothing to even sort. I just have to talk to Kyle because…for the first time, I let myself say the words that have been floating in my mind. They’ve been drifting, like viscous oil on top of water, those three little words.

So I say them out loud, “I’m not gay.”

They ricochet dully off my walls, and even after the echo’s gone, I can still hear them, a steady chant in my mind.

* * *

 

“Kyle!” I scream down the hall, having spotted his brilliant red hair after third period, “Kyle!”

He throws a furtive glance my way and then disappears into the sea of students.

“That _bastard_.”

After all the deliberation I put into thinking about him last night, and more so, NOT thinking about him, he has the nerve to just disappear? Yeah, not happening.

I get about five steps before I’m tackled into a locker by my least favorite person in the world, “Po’Boy!”

Okay, it’s prob’ly not fair to call him my ‘least favorite person’. That title gets spread pretty thin in my mind, where teachers, cheerleaders, and my boss all fall into the category of ‘incarnations of Satan’. Hell, that’s not even fair to Satan. He’s a pretty nice guy. Throws a weak party, but hey. He’s cool.

Let’s put it this way. Cartman’s like a puppy, if a puppy weighed five gazillion pounds. I’m serious. Think about it; he spends all his time sleepin’, eatin’, and barkin’. There’s the little matter of how puppies like to play fetch and Cartman won’t even get up to answer the door, but otherwise, it’s a spot on comparison.

“What?” I ask warily, because puppy or not, Cartman’s a user. For the most part, he likes to snap at people and ask like a general manipulative douche, but on rare occasion, he can be sort of dangerous.

“Kenneh,” his tone softens, turns wheedling, “You’re smart and stuff, right?”

“Um. No.”

“Don’t lie to me if you value your nuts,” he warns.

“Do you need to copy my homework?”

“Kenneh. Why would I need to copy your homework? I am a genius. You are poor. Does that sound logical to you?” Cartman asks.

“You want to copy my homework,” I state again.

He blinks, “Don’t tell anyone. It will ruin my reputation.”

“Yeah. Right,” I roll my eyes. Eric Cartman is quite possibly one of the smartest kids at our school; animal comparisons aside. He’s jut…well, incredibly lazy. More so than me, in fact.

Being brought up with the idea that he’s the ‘most special little boy in the world’ hasn’t done him any favors.

His mom’s like the worst enabler, ever.

At any rate, by the time Cartman’s done finagling my homework from my hands, there’s only minutes left til class. Kyle’s long gone.

I sigh. Somehow, I’d imagined this going better.

I sit through the rest of my classes and lunch, where Stan’s moping because everybody’s favorite Jew has vanished into thin air, and Cartman’s gloating because he reigns victorious as teacher’s pet, despite stealing my answers. I’m hanging on a moment, a thread, a breath, just waiting to see if Kyle will man up and let me know how this all is going to go down. I don’t know if any other guy has been more firmly entrenched in my thoughts.

“Kenny,” Stan says, his depression radiating across the table towards me, “Do you think Kyle’s going to show up to lunch at all?”

“God, fag. Think you can live for one second without your gay-ass Siamese twin?” Cartman interjects. I don’t even get the chance to open my mouth, “Kenneh’s not your jewrat’s fucking secretary. If there’s any justice in this world, Kahl’s gone to hang himself in the library.”

“Don’t you dare say that!” Stan hisses, “Fucking fatass!”

“Did you need him for something?” I ask. It’s a stupid question, because Stan and Kyle need each other to fucking breathe, but as the resident hick I’m supposed to sound like an idiot. I’m okay with it. Somebody’s got to make all the other kids feel smarter.

Stan groans, burying his face in his arms so that all I can see is his eyes, staring straight at the vending machine in the corner of the cafeteria.

“He’s been acting so weird. I wanted to tell him something, but he’s barely spoken to me since yesterday. I don’t know what’s going on,” his gaze falls on me, “Did something happen with Heidi?”

“Um,” I can tell I’m blushing, “No. Not really. She’s still in the running for becoming America’s Biggest Bitch, if that’s what you’re asking.”

No way am I telling him about my little mistake, or the fact that now I have to hunt Kyle down and actually talk about it. I hate talking about things. All that touchy feely emotional shit is chick territory.

Plus, how do you even talk about a kiss and run thing? It’s like a hit and run, with less carnage. Or possibly more, depending on how you look at it. I’m beginning to think my plan is seriously flawed.

“Oh,” Stan’s dejected, and there’s not much I can do ‘bout it.

Except maybe dig at his pain.

“So does this thing you want to tell him have anything to do with a certain bathroom incident at a party?”

Stan turns a color never before seen in nature, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s embarrassed or because he’s choking on his Sloppy Joe. Cartman starts hitting him hard on the back, and chunks of food fly out of his mouth, hitting Butters Stotch in the head.

“Hey fellas! Stop throwin’ food!” he snaps before returning to his complicated world of apples and butterflies and whatever the hell else goes on in that little blond head of his.

“I thought we agreed never to talk about that!” Stan squeaks, finally recovering oxygen.

“What’s the bathroom incident, guys?” Cartman queries.

“We did, but you know, I just wanted to know if it was pertinent.”

“Kenny- don’t. Just don’t.”

“Loosen up, Stan.”

“Guys,” Cartman whines, “What’s the bathroom incident.”

“Stan puked,” I supply a lie with ease.

“So? Stan always pukes,” Cartman counters, “How much do you value your nuts, Kenneh?”

“Shut up.”

“Not very much I see.”

“Cartman, I’m serious,” I glare at him, “Why don’t you go find Wendy? I heard the slut hasn’t talked to you since the party.”

His face darkens, “Whatever. She’s a ho.”

“Right,” I glance at Stan, but he’s locked up so tight it would take the jaws of life to get him to tell me what’s on his mind.

The root of the problem’s Kyle. Isn’t it always? More and more I’m thinking I wasn’t off base when I said Stan might be competition.

Were there a competition to be had.

Which there isn’t.

Fuck. I’m ending this, now.

I stand up, impervious to Stan and Cartman’s stares. I’ve got a Jew to track down.


End file.
